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Authors: Andrea Molesini
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the window beside the fireplace.
‘But if they go round behind the house they’ll see it,’ said Giulia.
‘Forgotten magic wand on battlefield of Montebelluna.’
‘The Fokkers will spot it tomorrow,’ said Renato.
‘Tomorrow maybe it’ll snow,’ said the Englishman. ‘Got any tobacco?’
Renato pulled out a leather pouch, stuck his pipe in hismouth and handed the pouch to the airman, who weighed it in his hand as he asked, ‘Any news?’
There was an odour of damp cloth and rotten wood in the room, competing with the reek of the paraffin.
We were sitting elbow to elbow, Renato and I, while the Englishman was standing at the fireplace with his left elbow on the mantelpiece, eyeing Giulia. She, for her part, seemed all taken up by the portable stove, only twenty centimetres by ten. ‘Italian women good housewives,’ he said, puffing smoke up over his head. Then, turning to Renato: ‘Well, go on. News from Florida?’
‘I haven’t set foot there since. Tampa wasn’t the place for me. Those disgusting cigars turned my stomach.’
A heavy silence fell on the room. Giulia’s eyes met mine. Neither of us knew anything of Renato’s past. But now we were almost sure of one thing: that he was working for the Military Intelligence Service.
‘It was a lucky landing.’ Brian took off his white scarf and threw it onto a chair, on which I saw his leather flying helmet and goggles. ‘There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.’
‘Oh, have done with it…You and your spouting poetry…’ said Renato.
‘Don’t forget I am a Herrick, the poet of Cheapside.’
‘Yes, yes. I know all about your ancestor. You’ve bored us all stiff with him, every time you had one too many up he popped… How does the poem go again?’
The Englishman took a stance with his feet apart, lifted his chin and rhythmically intoned:
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
Renato repeated the last two lines in Italian for our benefit.
But a sudden burst of light whitened the window. ‘Flares!’ cried Renato. ‘Outside! At the double!’
Out we scrambled. Giulia first, then the Englishman and Renato. I was last out. Two shots sounded from the edge of the clearing.
‘Hold on a tick,’ said the pilot. He darted round behind the house. I saw the spark of a lighter and then the flames that in a trice engulfed the aircraft. He had left the fuel tank open. ‘No free gifts for the enemy.’
Renato led us off among the trees. The Englishman was just a step ahead of me. Short and stocky, with small, swift hands; more like a cutpurse than a knight of the skies. Then, behind us, the explosion.
The wood suddenly became bright as day. Not from the fire rising from the burning aircraft, but from the rockets of the Germans searching for us.
‘These Huns know how to make war.’
Renato quickened his pace, and we followed suit, and finally we entered a ravine.
The crash of the bursting flares echoed among the branches and off the rock walls. I was wondering why Renato had wanted me to come along with him. I learnt next day that the cottage where Brian had hidden up had belonged to Giulia’s mother. So she was there because she was the only one who really knew the last part of the way through the woods, and also because she wanted to come anyway. But I felt nothing but a burden.
We went ahead slowly, following the stream and careful notto make any noise. The water was flowing beneath the ice, with a gentle, muted gurgle. Every so often Renato called a halt, and stood listening intently. Nothing. Only the faint
plumf
of snow falling from the branches and the voices of night-hunting creatures. All the same, they were searching for us. A pilot is a lion, not a mere hare, and calls for highly skilled hunters. And the zone was occupied by two battalions of Feldjäger.
At a certain moment I realized we were near Refrontolo. I made out the
‘But if they go round behind the house they’ll see it,’ said Giulia.
‘Forgotten magic wand on battlefield of Montebelluna.’
‘The Fokkers will spot it tomorrow,’ said Renato.
‘Tomorrow maybe it’ll snow,’ said the Englishman. ‘Got any tobacco?’
Renato pulled out a leather pouch, stuck his pipe in hismouth and handed the pouch to the airman, who weighed it in his hand as he asked, ‘Any news?’
There was an odour of damp cloth and rotten wood in the room, competing with the reek of the paraffin.
We were sitting elbow to elbow, Renato and I, while the Englishman was standing at the fireplace with his left elbow on the mantelpiece, eyeing Giulia. She, for her part, seemed all taken up by the portable stove, only twenty centimetres by ten. ‘Italian women good housewives,’ he said, puffing smoke up over his head. Then, turning to Renato: ‘Well, go on. News from Florida?’
‘I haven’t set foot there since. Tampa wasn’t the place for me. Those disgusting cigars turned my stomach.’
A heavy silence fell on the room. Giulia’s eyes met mine. Neither of us knew anything of Renato’s past. But now we were almost sure of one thing: that he was working for the Military Intelligence Service.
‘It was a lucky landing.’ Brian took off his white scarf and threw it onto a chair, on which I saw his leather flying helmet and goggles. ‘There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.’
‘Oh, have done with it…You and your spouting poetry…’ said Renato.
‘Don’t forget I am a Herrick, the poet of Cheapside.’
‘Yes, yes. I know all about your ancestor. You’ve bored us all stiff with him, every time you had one too many up he popped… How does the poem go again?’
The Englishman took a stance with his feet apart, lifted his chin and rhythmically intoned:
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
Renato repeated the last two lines in Italian for our benefit.
But a sudden burst of light whitened the window. ‘Flares!’ cried Renato. ‘Outside! At the double!’
Out we scrambled. Giulia first, then the Englishman and Renato. I was last out. Two shots sounded from the edge of the clearing.
‘Hold on a tick,’ said the pilot. He darted round behind the house. I saw the spark of a lighter and then the flames that in a trice engulfed the aircraft. He had left the fuel tank open. ‘No free gifts for the enemy.’
Renato led us off among the trees. The Englishman was just a step ahead of me. Short and stocky, with small, swift hands; more like a cutpurse than a knight of the skies. Then, behind us, the explosion.
The wood suddenly became bright as day. Not from the fire rising from the burning aircraft, but from the rockets of the Germans searching for us.
‘These Huns know how to make war.’
Renato quickened his pace, and we followed suit, and finally we entered a ravine.
The crash of the bursting flares echoed among the branches and off the rock walls. I was wondering why Renato had wanted me to come along with him. I learnt next day that the cottage where Brian had hidden up had belonged to Giulia’s mother. So she was there because she was the only one who really knew the last part of the way through the woods, and also because she wanted to come anyway. But I felt nothing but a burden.
We went ahead slowly, following the stream and careful notto make any noise. The water was flowing beneath the ice, with a gentle, muted gurgle. Every so often Renato called a halt, and stood listening intently. Nothing. Only the faint
plumf
of snow falling from the branches and the voices of night-hunting creatures. All the same, they were searching for us. A pilot is a lion, not a mere hare, and calls for highly skilled hunters. And the zone was occupied by two battalions of Feldjäger.
At a certain moment I realized we were near Refrontolo. I made out the
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