in the bottom of the basket, and then he carefully placed roses over the top of them. The thorns on them looked long and sharp.
“They won’t want to move the roses with those thorns,” Patricio said with a nod. “You know which way to go?”
I nodded. Patricio had described the route to me. I’d only been to that village once before, many years ago when Mama had been alive. I would know it once I saw it.
I didn’t wave goodbye as I left, I didn’t dare take my hands off the handlebars as I was afraid I’d topple. The day was warm and the sun bright so I quickly became hot. Neither Patricio nor the old man knew whether there would be a checkpoint on the road. The Germans moved them around, not having sufficient numbers to man all the roads all the time. It kept us guessing, never knowing for sure. Most were manned by Blackshirts – my own countrymen who enforce Mussolini’s laws on us – with a German officer in charge to make sure that they did their job in accordance with whatever Mussolini, Hitler’s puppet, dictated.
I hummed a hymn to myself as I cycled, partly to give myself courage and to keep my spirits up. I was almost at the village, elated that I had escaped notice, when I rounded a corner and ahead of me was a checkpoint. Fear rose in my throat, almost making me choke, but instead of following my instinct and turning around, I pedalled towards it, still humming my hymn.
“Stop,” said one of the Blackshirts as I drew near. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to visit my nonna and give her these flowers. She’s been ill.”
“Papers,” demanded an officer as he came over.
I pulled them from the pocket of my apron, crumpled and a little damp.
“Lina,” he said as he looked at the paper. I nodded. “What do you have in your basket?”
“Flowers, that’s all, just some flowers to brighten her day.” I tried to sound cheerful and relaxed but I’m not sure that I did it right.
“Let’s see,” said the officer as he stepped closer. He picked up the roses by the stems and cried out as the thorns pricked his fingers. I watched as his face puckered in anger.
Just then, over the brow of the hill, came cracks of gunfire. As one, the men turned towards the sound and drew their rifles. I hesitated, unsure. The German officer pulled out his pistol and I went cold inside, thinking that they were going to shoot me. Instead he waved me aside and said, “Go on then, get out of here.”
I heaved at the pedals as I rode away, thanking God for letting me through. I found the house that the old man had described to me. Inside were two men who took the plans in their sack but scattered the roses on the ground.
“Here,” one of the men said, putting an envelope in my hand. “Take this to Patricio. Don’t let the Germans get it – it tells of our next target.”
I nodded and placed the paper inside my dress, up against my heart. I stayed for a while, cooling down in the shade of the house, and a woman from inside brought me water. I later saw the two men climbing the hill behind the house, one of them carrying the sack I had brought.
When my heartbeat had returned to normal and the sweat had cooled on my skin, I set off back to the village. The checkpoint was gone; the only evidence was the cigarette butts on the ground.
Amelia was waiting for me when I arrived back in the late afternoon.
“I thought you had got lost,” she said as I slowed the bicycle.
“No,” I said as I came to a stop.
“Or been shot,” Amelia added.
I don’t know why, but at that moment the fear welled up in me and I vomited on the ground. Perhaps it was the heat, or maybe the water I had drunk in the village.
Amelia caught the bicycle as it wobbled while I was bent over.
“It’s your first time,” she said softly. “It will get easier.”
That meant that I’d be doing it again. I felt a little uneasy and yet excited at the thought.
28 November
I went with Mum today to the rest home in which
“They won’t want to move the roses with those thorns,” Patricio said with a nod. “You know which way to go?”
I nodded. Patricio had described the route to me. I’d only been to that village once before, many years ago when Mama had been alive. I would know it once I saw it.
I didn’t wave goodbye as I left, I didn’t dare take my hands off the handlebars as I was afraid I’d topple. The day was warm and the sun bright so I quickly became hot. Neither Patricio nor the old man knew whether there would be a checkpoint on the road. The Germans moved them around, not having sufficient numbers to man all the roads all the time. It kept us guessing, never knowing for sure. Most were manned by Blackshirts – my own countrymen who enforce Mussolini’s laws on us – with a German officer in charge to make sure that they did their job in accordance with whatever Mussolini, Hitler’s puppet, dictated.
I hummed a hymn to myself as I cycled, partly to give myself courage and to keep my spirits up. I was almost at the village, elated that I had escaped notice, when I rounded a corner and ahead of me was a checkpoint. Fear rose in my throat, almost making me choke, but instead of following my instinct and turning around, I pedalled towards it, still humming my hymn.
“Stop,” said one of the Blackshirts as I drew near. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to visit my nonna and give her these flowers. She’s been ill.”
“Papers,” demanded an officer as he came over.
I pulled them from the pocket of my apron, crumpled and a little damp.
“Lina,” he said as he looked at the paper. I nodded. “What do you have in your basket?”
“Flowers, that’s all, just some flowers to brighten her day.” I tried to sound cheerful and relaxed but I’m not sure that I did it right.
“Let’s see,” said the officer as he stepped closer. He picked up the roses by the stems and cried out as the thorns pricked his fingers. I watched as his face puckered in anger.
Just then, over the brow of the hill, came cracks of gunfire. As one, the men turned towards the sound and drew their rifles. I hesitated, unsure. The German officer pulled out his pistol and I went cold inside, thinking that they were going to shoot me. Instead he waved me aside and said, “Go on then, get out of here.”
I heaved at the pedals as I rode away, thanking God for letting me through. I found the house that the old man had described to me. Inside were two men who took the plans in their sack but scattered the roses on the ground.
“Here,” one of the men said, putting an envelope in my hand. “Take this to Patricio. Don’t let the Germans get it – it tells of our next target.”
I nodded and placed the paper inside my dress, up against my heart. I stayed for a while, cooling down in the shade of the house, and a woman from inside brought me water. I later saw the two men climbing the hill behind the house, one of them carrying the sack I had brought.
When my heartbeat had returned to normal and the sweat had cooled on my skin, I set off back to the village. The checkpoint was gone; the only evidence was the cigarette butts on the ground.
Amelia was waiting for me when I arrived back in the late afternoon.
“I thought you had got lost,” she said as I slowed the bicycle.
“No,” I said as I came to a stop.
“Or been shot,” Amelia added.
I don’t know why, but at that moment the fear welled up in me and I vomited on the ground. Perhaps it was the heat, or maybe the water I had drunk in the village.
Amelia caught the bicycle as it wobbled while I was bent over.
“It’s your first time,” she said softly. “It will get easier.”
That meant that I’d be doing it again. I felt a little uneasy and yet excited at the thought.
28 November
I went with Mum today to the rest home in which
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