Hero on a Bicycle (11 page)

Colonel Richter tapped his gloves against the table in the hall with ill-concealed irritation as Gräss reported that nothing had been found. There were a few brusque exchanges between them, and then Richter summoned his two plainclothes Gestapo men, who had been waiting outside, bowed stiffly to Rosemary, and, ignoring Constanza and Paolo altogether, stalked out to his car.

As soon as he had driven off, followed closely by Gräss and his party in the army truck, Rosemary, Constanza, and Paolo bolted back down the cellar stairs. There was no time to spare — they had to clear away the junk and free Joe from his stifling hiding place.

“It’s all right, Joe — it’s only us!” called Constanza softly, but there was no reply. When at last they got the little door open, they found Joe half conscious and dripping with sweat. Paolo dragged a mattress back onto the floor, and Constanza and Rosemary half supported, half carried Joe out. The first thing he did was vomit. Constanza ran for a bowl, a sponge, and a glass of water. Joe came around after a few sips and drank greedily. Then he lay back while Rosemary cleaned him up and put a fresh dressing on his shoulder wound.

He tried to smile but was too exhausted to manage it. “Gee, I’m sorry about all this. I’m . . . It’s . . .” He failed to finish the sentence. He was already asleep, his good arm flung across his face like a kid afraid of the dark.

Upstairs, Rosemary made a pot of tea and put out what was left of the day’s meager bread ration. It was still only late afternoon, hot and sunny outside, but as the three of them sat there, gulping and chewing but otherwise in silence, it seemed as though they had come to the end of a very long day.

T
here was very little rest for any of them that night. Joe, who was still sleeping, exhausted, in the cellar, was the only one not to be kept awake by the noise of shelling and gunfire growing ever closer. German troops were moving up the road outside — armored cars, tanks, and truckloads of soldiers — traveling to the front line, which was now not far away.

Paolo got up very early, while it was still only half light, and wandered out into the yard. He felt the need for Guido’s company and the old dog’s unfailing, unquestioning loyalty. He found him dozing half in and half out of his kennel. The dog lumbered to his feet when he heard Paolo and wagged his tail, not yet so old that he could not manage a warm welcome.

Paolo knelt down beside him and absently fondled his ears. In spite of his own weariness, he was thinking hard, wondering what on earth would happen to the family now. He was very frightened and kept listening for the sound of Colonel Richter’s car. He knew that if the search party returned — as they easily might — and found Joe, it would mean not only the Canadian’s recapture but also his mother’s arrest for hiding him. And with Florence under martial law, they could both be summarily shot without trial.

A huge anger welled up in Paolo. It was directed, quite irrationally, against Joe for “fetching up” back in their cellar. And there was the old anger, too, the one against his father for not being there to protect them, for putting his political convictions first and the family second. Why, oh why, wasn’t he here? All the bravado and excitement Paolo had felt the other night when he had insisted on being Joe and David’s guide into Florence seemed foolhardy, a crazy kid’s game. Since the terrible moment when he had heard that German bullet hit the wall behind his head — a sound that would be replayed over and over in his worst dreams forever — he had known for sure that this was no game.

If only I could get in touch with Babbo,
he thought desperately for the hundredth time.
If there were some way I could get a message to him. Surely then he’d come back and take charge. He’d know what to do.

But it was hopeless. Not even his mother knew where his father was hiding — that knowledge was too dangerous.

Guido was resting his slobbery jaw on Paolo’s knee, hoping for something to eat. Paolo found a morsel of bread in his pocket and gave it to him. He checked that the water bowl at least was full. He was thinking hard. There was only one thing to be done, he decided. They couldn’t afford to wait for the Partisans to come to them. He had to try to contact them and get them to take Joe back into hiding somewhere in the hills. Then perhaps Il Volpe himself would be able to find a way to get him to safety.

He stood up and glanced at the house. Nobody was up and about yet, not even Maria. He had to act now, before his courage failed him. Giving a last affectionate tug to Guido’s ears, he walked quickly to the shed where he kept his bicycle.

He headed toward the place where he had encountered Il Volpe and his fellow Partisans the first time. As he rode, he heard the sound of explosions, followed by machine-gun fire. Both were frighteningly near. But he kept going. He rode for about half an hour. When the path again became too steep, he dismounted and began to push his bicycle as he had before. He thought he recognized some of the turns he had taken not so long ago, when he had thought that coming up here was such an adventure. A hero on a bicycle, as he had seen himself then. This time he was just plain scared.

He suddenly stopped and listened. He could hear sounds of movement coming from beyond the next bend. Somebody was approaching. He quickly dragged his bicycle into the bushes and crouched down beside it.

A posse of four German soldiers, helmeted and in full military uniforms, rifles at the ready, came around the corner. Paolo’s heart contracted with fear. In their midst stumbled a figure he knew well. It was Il Volpe himself.

A
s soon as she was awake, Constanza softly descended to the cellar, carrying Joe’s breakfast: a cup of hot milk and a dry roll (the family butter ration had run out days ago). It was horribly stuffy, so she left the door at the top of the stairs open to let in some air and a little light. She found him still drowsy but recovered enough to scramble up into a sitting position as soon as he saw her.

“Sleep all right?” she asked.

“Yeah — like the dead. Which is probably what I would be now if it hadn’t been for you and your mom and Paolo, and what you did for me yesterday.”

“Not you, Joe. You’re a — what’s the word? — a survivor.” She smiled and handed him the cup. They sat side by side on the mattress. He sipped in silence for a while, and then he said, “I’ve got to get out of here, right now. I can’t let you put yourselves on the line for me any longer. It’s too dangerous. Those Gestapo swine could come back again anytime.”

“But where will you go?”

“If I can, I’ll make it into the hills. I’ll be all right. It can’t be long before this city gets liberated. The fighting’s really close now.” As if to reinforce his words, they heard a sudden burst of gunfire not so far away. Constanza jumped.

Joe looked at her. “You’re too young to be mixed up in all this,” he said. “You ought to be — I don’t know — somewhere wonderful, having a good time. Not stuck here, having to be so brave.”

“Not brave,” said Constanza. Her voice wobbled. “Not brave at all.”

Joe put down his cup. He reached out his good arm and took her hand. She held on to him tightly. They sat like that for a while without speaking. Then Joe took her face in both his hands.

“Brave,” he said again, “and beautiful, too.” His face was sad and almost puzzled in the half-dark. He began to stroke her hair, very gently, pushing it away from her forehead. Somehow, rather awkwardly, their faces grew very close together. Constanza closed her eyes. . . .

“Paolo! Paolo, are you down there?” Maria’s raucous voice came from the top of the stairs. “Constanza?” she called again. “Is Paolo there? Constanza! Have you seen him?”

“He’s not down here,” Constanza answered wearily.

Rosemary was in the kitchen, already dressed but looking white-faced and strained.

“We need food,” she said when Constanza came in carrying Joe’s empty cup. “There’s hardly any left. Maria and I will see if we can get down to the farm the back way, through the garden. It’s too dangerous on the road. How’s Joe?”

Constanza was in no mood for conversation. “Better, I think,” she said briefly, then added, “He’s talking about trying to hide out somewhere in the hills.”

“It’s too soon yet. He needs another day’s rest before he’s fit to try it.”

Maria was fiddling irritatingly with the radio, attempting to get the BBC European service or Voice of America. When at last she managed it, they caught something about the Allied invasion of northern France and the liberation of Cherbourg by the Americans, but nothing about the progress of the war in Italy. They must have missed it.

“We should go,” said Rosemary, switching off the wireless. “Constanza, you and Paolo mustn’t go out on any account. Where
is
Paolo, anyway? He can’t have been so silly as to have gone wandering off somewhere — he must know how dangerous it is.”

“He’s probably lazing around in the garden,” said Constanza. “I’ll go and look.”

While she was gone, Rosemary went out into the yard. For the moment, the road outside was deserted, and there seemed to be a lull in the nerve-racking noise of shelling. She hurried around to the bicycle shed and looked inside.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed when she saw that Paolo’s bicycle was missing. “Oh, Paolo — please — no!”

P
aolo held his breath as the German soldiers and their prisoner passed. Il Volpe’s hands were tied behind his back, and his face was badly bruised. One eye was almost closed, and on his forehead there was a gaping cut that was bleeding down into his beard.

Paolo waited tensely until they had gone on ahead. He then crept out of the bushes and began to follow at a safe distance, wheeling his bicycle and keeping well in the shadow of the trees, ready to dodge out of sight at any moment. They kept going for some time along the narrow path until it forked — they took the wider path, going steeply downhill in the opposite direction to the way Paolo had come. He was getting farther and farther away from home, and he had no clear idea what he hoped to achieve, but he kept on going.

Occasionally Il Volpe stumbled and fell, but the soldiers kicked him until he was back on his feet again.

The path became a dirt road. Soon there were dry-stone walls, and the trees gave way to olive groves, vineyards, and the occasional group of farm buildings, baking in the noonday heat. It became almost impossible for Paolo to follow without being spotted. He let them go out of sight and turned onto a farm road. He threw down his bicycle and sprawled on the ground beside it. He felt completely lost. And only now did he realize how terrified he was.

He wondered what had happened to the other Partisans. Perhaps they were all dead, or maybe they were not even aware that Il Volpe had been captured. Where were those German soldiers taking him? Wherever it was, Paolo thought, there was nothing he could do to help him now.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, three German fighter planes — Messerschmitts — ripped through the sky overhead, and there was a burst of heavy gunfire not far away. Paolo automatically ducked and covered his head with his hands. More than anything in the world, he wanted to get back home. The best way, he thought, was to follow the road to a village and try to make it back from there. Wearily, and aching with hunger and thirst, he lugged his bicycle back onto the road and set off.