The Incident at Montebello (22 page)

“Be careful who you say that to.”

“I'm not afraid of them. What can they do to me? I'm an old woman. My husband's dead. My son lives in Napoli. I've got no one else.” Instead of wiping her eyes on her apron, she gave him a fierce look, her fists jammed against her hips.

“I'm sorry for your troubles,
signora.
”

“When my troubles are gone, I'll be dead.”

“Well, I suppose that's one way to look at it.”

The widow peered at him. “You look pale. Are you hungry? I'll bring over some soup.”

“Just a little,
signora
. I don't have much of an appetite.”

It was the wrong thing to say. He had forgotten the villagers' obsession with bodily functions and ailments, which they discussed in great detail, no matter if they were talking to their spouse or the mayor. Immediately, the widow bombarded him with questions. Was his head still giving him trouble? How much did he eat the day before? When was the last time he moved his bowels? Were they loose or tight? Did he have any ringing in his ears? Dizziness?

When Sardolini told her about the pain in his ear, the widow nodded. “I have just the thing for you. It'll bring the color back to your cheeks.”

“That's not necessary,
signora.
You're more than kind.” But his protests were absolutely worthless. An hour later, the widow returned with a tray of food. He peeked underneath the checked napkin at the pasta sautéed with chicken livers and took a tentative bite. And then another. It was delicious.

While he chewed and swallowed, the widow studied him, her eyebrows twitching. At last, she declared, “With every bite, you look better.”

He didn't speak until the plate was empty. He told her, “You hide it well,
signora
.”

“What's that?”

“Your kind heart.”

For a moment, a light flared in her eyes and he was certain a smile was about to break across her face, but then with an impatient jerk of her shoulders, she grasped the tray and whisked it away, all the while muttering about her floors that needed washing.

After supper he lit the lamp and sat down to write at the table, sustained by the widow's cooking and her kindness. As his pen scratched across the page, his thoughts unraveled and deeper emotions dislodged and broke free, much like ice on a river. Each piece cut him with its fierce brittleness. It was true what his mother said—it hurt to remember.

For several nights now, Sardolini dreamt of Lucia and woke with her name caught in his throat. Groaning, he curled up in the dark in his one-room prison, trying not to imagine her in bed next door with that bastard of a husband, whom he had glimpsed twice in the yard while hauling a bucket of water from the well. With an elaborate sweep of his hat, Donato saluted him with a bow and a grin before striding to the street, a cigar clenched between his teeth. “Shit,” Sardolini muttered, glaring at him. That son of a bitch was behind his arrest, he was sure of it.

One thought consoled him—by shouldering the blame, he had protected Charlie. He'd do anything to help the boy and his mother. Squeezing his eyes shut, he summoned her radiant smile and lustrous hair. In his dream he was holding her in his arms. As he pressed his lips against hers, a shimmer of heat passed between them and his heart ached with exquisite pain and joy—in one moment realizing that he had lost Lià and in the next, that he had found Lucia.

It was hopeless, impossible, and yet, he couldn't stop thinking of her.

He was sealing the letter when someone tapped on the door. He steeled himself for another visit from the police, but when he peered outside, he was relieved to see Rodi. “The guards might see you,” Sardolini said.

“It's all right. Prefetto Balbi knows I'm here.”

He was surprised and suspicious, too. Still, he glanced at the letters in Rodi's hands and invited him inside. After pouring some coffee, he set the steaming cups on the table between them. “Why are you still working when you could be home in bed with your lovely wife?” Sardolini asked after taking a sip.

Smiling, Rodi extracted a picture from his wallet and brushed his fingers over it as if it were her face. Sardolini studied the print, deciding that marriage had deepened Isolina's beauty. She was sweeping her hair into a knot at the crown, making her look like Lucia. He sighed. “Beautiful. Lovely,” he said, returning the picture.

As Rodi slipped it into his wallet, he told Sardolini a surprising bit of news. “Manfredo finally made it back here last night.”

Sardolini studied the beautiful young man, whose delicate mouth and unguarded eyes did nothing to reassure him. “Where is he?”

“Nearby. In a sheep shed.”

“Is he crazy? He can't stay here.” Jumping to his feet, Sardolini pried up the loose board near his bed, reached into a sack and pulled out a map, a compass, and a roll of sketches tied together with string. As he replaced the board, he told Rodi, “Give this map and compass to Manfredo and tell him to make his way down the coast. He'll reach Messina in a week or so, less if he can hitch a ride. From there, he should take the ferry to Palermo and another to Marseilles.”

“Does this mean you've changed your mind about helping us,
signore
?”

“Yes,” Sardolini said, “I'll do whatever I can.”

Rodi grabbed his hand and jerked it up and down. “I can't thank you enough,
signore.
”

“You need to act quickly,” Sardolini said, freeing his hand. “With every extra day, with every extra hour, you risk getting caught.”

Rodi nodded, a worried knot between his brows. “There's one more thing,
signore.
I have a message from Faustino about your friends, the anti-Fascists.”

Sardolini blinked in astonishment. “How can that be?”

Rodi smiled. “Don't look so surprised,
signore
. Faustino trusts me.”

Sardolini's mind skittered from one thought to another. Faustino was crazy to involve Rodi in the movement. The boy was under too much scrutiny. Still, his heart was racing, partly from fear and partly from excitement at the thought of finding out about his friends. He inhaled and said, “Yes, tell me. I need to hear it.”

“Well, it's like this,
signore.
Your group has been split up, but they're all alive. Segre-Amar and Ginzburg are still in prison in Roma. Two others are in jail in Corsica. Three are in Sardinia. Two more—Levy and Moravia—have escaped to France.”

Sardolini grinned and slapped the table. “That's better than I hoped.” He pumped the boy's hand and fished in his pocket for a coin.

Rodi gestured to the envelope on the table. “I can take your letter.”

Sardolini handed it over and held up the roll of drawings. “Can you deliver these sketches to Faustino?”

“Of course.”

Rodi left Sardolini with a wave and a smile, which lingered in Sardolini's mind. The postman reminded him of himself in the early days of the movement and brought to mind what he had lost—his innocence, his love of the fight, and the pure joy of living with the person who mattered most in the world.

With a sigh, he grabbed a knife, slit open his mail, and devoured the news from his cousins in Siena. Writing in Yiddish, they voiced their concern at the political situation and speculated what it would mean personally for them as Jews now that the Germans had voted in Adolf Hitler as their next chancellor. Like Sardolini, they didn't trust Hitler—Mussolini's protégé. If Mussolini aligned himself with the Nazis, would their fate as Jews be sealed? And would Mussolini follow Spain's lead and soon be embroiled in a civil war?

With his head lowered over the paper, he didn't see Charlie walking through the door.

“What are you reading,
signore?
” the boy said.

Sardolini stared at him in alarm. “What are you doing here?”

“My mother sent me. She wanted to thank you for helping me.” Charlie handed him the canvas sack slung over his shoulder.

“I can't take this.”

“Why? It's just vegetables.”

Sardolini reached inside and pulled out a jar of red peppers glowing like candles. Overcome by a rush of gratitude, he fumbled for his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “Tell her I appreciate this very much. Tell her I will enjoy them. But wait. I have a something for her.” On a slip of paper, he struggled to condense his thoughts and feelings into a few words and settled on one.
Coraggio
—courage. He handed it to Charlie and told him, “Now go home and forget about playing tricks on the
fascisti.
Obey the rules for my sake and your mother's.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“That's what I thought when I was your age. But take a good look at my face.”

“I'm sorry you took a beating for me.”

“Did you ever think what would happen if Prefetto Balbi found out you played the record?”

“I'm not afraid of him.”

“You should be. You could get worse.”

“I'm careful,
signore.
Nobody knows except you and my mother.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

“But why did you do it,
signore
? I mean, take the blame for me.”

Sardolini owed him the truth. “I like you, Charlie. I didn't want you to get hurt. There's enough hate in the world. I didn't want you to experience it. You're too young.”

The boy shook his head. “But I don't understand. People say you're the devil. They say you care more for ideas than people.”

He wrestled with his feelings. “They can say whatever they want, but my actions speak for me.” He paused. A noise in the distance made him raise his hand in warning. A moment later, he was sure of it—someone was whistling outside and coming closer. He grabbed the boy's sleeve. “Quick Charlie. Do as I say. Hide under the bed. The guard's coming. He can't find you here.”

In a few quick motions, the boy dropped to his knees and slid under Sardolini's bed. Seconds later, someone banged on the door. To Sardolini's surprise, the priest strolled into the room.

“There he is, the record bandit,” Padre Colletti said, smiling and extending his hand. “I'm glad to see you're up and around.”

“I'm much better, thanks.” Sardolini gave him a weak smile. He couldn't very well send the
padre
away, but he could dull the priest's senses with a glass of grappa. He lifted the bottle off the shelf above the sink and said, “Would you like to join me?”

“Of course.” The priest's one good eye was fixed on Sardolini with unblinking intensity.

Busying himself with the pouring and handing out the brandy, he tried not to let his eyes stray to the bed. Instead, he sat down across from the priest, whose knees were splayed apart, testing the endurance of his cassock, straining at the hips and thighs. The priest slid a newspaper towards him, and in a flash, he devoured the blaring headlines—that Il Duce supported the newly elected Adolf Hitler and Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

The priest sipped his grappa and said, “They're calling you the record bandit. They say you're a hero.”

“People will believe whatever they want.”

“Because of you, Prefetto Balbi has forbidden anyone to play American records.”

Sardolini frowned. “He's carrying it a bit too far, don't you think?”

The priest hesitated and changed the subject. “I suppose you haven't heard the latest about Manfredo.”

Sardolini joked, “Where is he now? China?” The widow had told him that every day a new rumor surfaced.

“He's not far from here.” He told Sardolini how his colleague had recognized Manfredo at mass the previous Sunday, and added, “May the Good Lord have mercy on his soul. I've heard his confessions for years. I know what sins he's capable of.”

“He likes women. That's not a crime.”

The priest shook his head. “That's the least of it. He's part of a terrorist group based in Castellammare.”

“I don't believe it,” he lied. Faustino swore that Manfredo was a key member and had fooled nearly everyone until his arrest.

“Believe it. These terrorists will stop at nothing—blowing up buildings and cars, killing in cold blood. The police put a price on his head. Mayor Cipollina said anyone helping him will be shot.”

Sardolini tugged on his lip. No doubt Mayor Cipollina was taking his job seriously, and from the satisfied look on the priest's face, he wasn't objecting.

At last, the priest drained his glass and stood. Sardolini was just breathing a sigh of relief when the priest stumbled over the sack, which Charlie had dropped by the table. A jar rolled out of the bag and shot towards the bed. Sardolini leapt to his feet, but the priest, who was closer, bent down to retrieve it. That's when he caught sight of Charlie's foot and grabbed it. The boy yelped. “Who's this? More company?” the priest demanded, his face darkening as Charlie slid out from under the bed and struggled to his feet. “Signor Sardolini's house is off limits,” he warned. “Prefetto Balbi made it very clear that the
signore
is the enemy.”

Sardolini's heart was racing. “The boy was just doing me a kindness. Surely, that's not a crime.”

“What kindness?” the priest said, hesitating.

“I was just delivering some food…” Charlie said, his voice trailing off.

Padre Colletti squinted at the jar in his hand. “Your mother sent this? How can she think of others at a time like this?”

Sardolini felt sick with apprehension, but he seized this opening and ran with it. “She's a remarkable woman. She sends presents to the widow too.”

“All the time,” Charlie added.

“She has a good heart,” the priest agreed.

He touched Padre Colletti's sleeve. “The boy needs to go home. His mother will worry.”

“As if she doesn't have enough to worry about,” the priest added.