Read Online The Golden Hour by Margaret Wurtele - Free Book Online Page B

my parents. I wasn’t sure where God was in all this, but I was pretty sure He wasn’t cheering the Nazis on. I prayed hard that God would forgive me for all the sneaking around and the lying, and that He would keep both me and Giorgio safe until I could deliver the duffel bag later that afternoon. As for Klaus, I thought that he had a good soul locked inside. I believed he was a decent man, simply playing the role expected of him as a German soldier. Was there a difference between his mining bridges and my keeping Giorgio’s activities from my parents? I kept the communion wafer on my tongue without chewing it at all.
If it dissolves of its own accord,
I thought,
I’m doing the right thing.
By the time we heard the dismissal blessing, the last bit slipped down like a spoonful of oatmeal.

    Catarina had stowed everything in the bag and hidden it in a remote corner of her garden under a hedge. That allowed me to give Tonino a quick hug when I arrived and for Catarina and me to head casually for the garden without attracting attention.
    I gave the duffel a trial lift. Not too much weight at all, but the bag looked suspicious. We decided to take out the long gunnysack that held the vegetables in the bottom and stuff the clothes and loaves of bread in on top of them in layers. The result was a lumpy hemp bag that looked as though it held an afternoon’s worth of garden harvest. I hoisted the heavy load over my shoulder and trudged through the woods to the gazebo. Another Sunday afternoon. No farmers in view, no soldiers at all.
    When I arrived in the clearing, there was no one there either. I heaved the bag onto the marble base and sat down heavily, leaningagainst a column, the moss underneath it seeping moisture slowly up through the layers of my full skirt. It was quiet except for the occasional
rat-a-tat-tat
ting of a woodpecker on a dead tree and the breeze stirring the branches over my head. It smelled sharp, like mildew.
    As I waited, I began to worry. I had no idea how many people Giorgio was living with, but when I pictured the small fistfuls of peas and beans I had brought lying on tin plates, I realized they wouldn’t go far. He could probably finish off those two loaves of bread in one sitting. Could they cook? Did they need pots and pans or dishes? Two things I’d figured out by then: I’d have to work a lot harder to find enough clothes and food, and I wouldn’t ever be able to carry enough to make Giorgio happy.
    As I was mulling these things over, I heard the crackling of twigs and low male voices. “Giovanna. You made it.” Giorgio and another man, one whom I did not recognize, came out of the woods. The man was taller and older than my brother, maybe forty or so, and—like Giorgio—he had a growth of beard shadowing his lower face.
    “Giorgio!” I cried, running up to him and slipping my arms around his waist.
    “No.” He put his hand over my mouth. “Forget that name, okay? I’m Hermes, and this here’s the Fox. We’ve left our old lives behind us now. You have to remember that.”
    I studied the man’s reddish hair, his close-set, beady eyes, and his long pointed nose. Yes, clearly the Fox. I thought I could remember that one. “Why Hermes?”
    “Well, he was the messenger, was he not? That seems to be my role, time and again. I like to keep moving, and I’m kind of a go-between. I convinced you to get involved, didn’t I?” He opened the top of the bag that was lying on its side. “Let’s see what you’ve got in here.”
    Giorgio began rummaging around inside and pulling out theitems one by one, setting the clothes on one side, the food on the other. “These look like English army pants!” said the Fox in an odd, lilting Italian.
    “Two pairs,” said Giorgio, holding up the others. “The Fox is English. He was shot down a year ago, and after he recovered, he was unable to reconnect with his regiment or penetrate the German lines. So he’s joined up with us, working with the