A Thread of Grace

In no hurry to get back to the village, she sits on a boulder and watches leaves flutter and twirl on their stems as her fingers work at the buttons of her blouse. Once anonymous, the plants around her are familiar now; she knows Don Leto’s book from front to back. Laburnum alpinum, typical of subalpine mountains, she thinks. Rosa pendulina. Geranium sylvaticum. Saxifraga rotundifolia. The Latin binomials are like poetry. All the creekside plants are native, but nearly everything in the gardens is from America: tomatoes, potatoes, corn, squash, peppers. What on earth did Italians eat before Columbus?

Closing her eyes, she listens to the creek. Its hushed noise reminds her of applause for a symphony heard on the shortwave. The mountain is her orchestra now. She knows its music well—

Her eyes snap open. The first cry sounds almost like a birdcall, but so many songbirds have been trapped for food… She stands, straightens her skirt, moves away from the water’s babble, listens harder. A squeal this time. Or a bleat, like a lost goat might make.

Curious, cautious, she steps from rock to rock, crossing the creek to the other side of the ravine. She hears rough laughter, and she knows— already, she knows— but she makes her way to the top. Heart pounding, she raises her head just high enough to see, just long enough to be sure. Then she runs for home.

“The Germans were kicked like dogs south of Rome, but they pulled back in good order to the Trasimeno Line,” Santino says, drawing a finger across his shin. “They held the Allies there two weeks, but pulled back again to Arezzo.”

“We hhheard they’re d-d-dug in along the Aaarno,” Pierino says.

“The Gothic Line, they’re calling that one. A lot of men from Liguria and Piemonte were sent there to build walls, gun emplacements, watchtowers. That’s probably where your husband is, signora. I hope he’s all right.”

Tercilla nods, flattered by the attention. She’s heard that southerners are almost Arabs and keep their wives locked up, but Santino is respectful, full of news yet calm and steady. He always brings something from the city for Tercilla and Bettina. Little cubes of sugar this time, each wrapped in tiny pieces of paper with German words on them.

As much as she loves her son, Tercilla can see why Claudia prefers the stocky stonemason. Pierino is better looking and has a good job, but you have to balance that against the stutter and the missing arm. And the nightmares. With four girls to marry off, Tercilla never expected to have trouble settling her son. “Be patient, woman,” Domenico used to say. “When the widows and orphans know who they are, any man with a dick and a job will be a prince.” Now Tercilla is the one who waits to know if she’s a widow, and she’s lucky to have Pierino’s salary, even if it’s paid by the Fascist government. “That’s money the repubblicani won’t have for bullets,” Don Leto told her.

She cuts wedges of tomatoes, thick slabs of chestnut bread and thin slices of cheese, and sets them on the table between the men. “Would you like some wine?” she asks them. Stretching, she takes down a bottle, and her new wineglasses.

Tercilla wouldn’t like to think of herself as a war profiteer, but a lot of city people snuck into the hills this summer, hoping to swap small treasures for food. She took a silver spoon for a half liter of olive oil. That’s been a disappointment, darkening day by day until the only nice thing about it is the fancy design on the handle. But the crystal glasses she got for a small wheel of goat cheese! Those sparkle like new snow when the morning light hits them.

“The Germans pulled four divisions out of Italy to fight in France,” Santino is saying. “That should make things go faster here. But the British generals are…” He shrugs and shakes his head. “The Canadians broke through the Gothic Line in August. They lost four thousand men, but the British Eighth didn’t back them up, and when the weather got bad, the Canadians had to withdraw. The fascisti I work with thought it was a gift from God!”

“Th-the G-germans’re d-drrrilling hhhh—” Pierino holds up his hand, to ask for time. “Hhhholes! Under th-the P-p-ponte Antica.”

“The Roman bridge at Roccabarbena,” Tercilla clarifies, pouring the wine.

Santino takes a sip and nods his compliments. “Whenever they pull back, they blow up bridges behind them, to slow the Allies down.” He brightens. “That means they don’t think they can hold the Gothic: they’re getting ready to retreat north.” He addresses Pierino, one soldier to another. “Germans are dangerous, even after they’re gone. They leave booby traps everywhere. Mines hidden under cans of food, or pieces of chocolate, or soap. Even under dead bodies! Pick something up, there’s an explosion. You should watch them up here, so you know where the traps are.”

“Wwwwhy exp-p-plosssives?” Pierino makes an arc through the air, and then points underneath it.

“Under the bridge?” Santino recites from memory. “ ‘An arch is two weaknesses that, leaning together, become a strength.’ That’s what Leonardo said. Bridges are built for a load from the roadbed, so they’re hard to damage from above, like when planes drop bombs. But if you weaken the span from below—” He stops, his homely face almost breaking in half around his gappy grin. “That’s her!” he says happily. “I just heard Claudia outside!”

She bursts into the house, rushing past them for the rifle Santino gave her to seal their engagement. “Pierino! There are soldiers—”

Both men are on their feet when she turns, the carbine heavy in her hands. “Santino!” she says, astonished. “Thank God! There are soldiers doing something terrible to a girl!”

Santino reaches for the ’91 to check the chamber. “Where? How many are there?”

“Six of them. I’ll show you where.”

Pierino grabs a second strip clip of ammo from a shelf. Bettina appears in the doorway, eyes like eggs. Tercilla grips her daughter’s shoulders roughly and spins her back outside. “Go tell Cesare Brondello,” she says. “Then hide, Bettina! And stay hidden!”

They are working in pairs. One kneels on the girl’s shoulders while the second pumps away. Two are done. A blond corporal smokes. A private buttons his pants. Both call encouragement while the next, slack-mouthed and rapt, waits his turn. The youngest hangs back, and the blond corporal punches him in the shoulder. “What’s the matter?” the blond asks. “You some kind of queer?”

Twenty meters above, Claudia urges in a tiny, frantic voice, “Shoot them, Santino! Make them stop!”

Tercilla shakes her head. “He’ll hit the girl.”

“The b-b-blond first,” Pierino whispers.

“Second,” Santino says. The carbine’s well oiled: the bolt slides back noiselessly. Motionless as the rocks that hide him, Santino braces against a tree trunk. Listens to the blubbery little noises the girl makes each time the boy rams into her. Watches, unblinking, until the soldier sags.

Santino breathes out, finger tightening on the trigger. The other Germans give a ragged cheer when their comrade grins for the last time, rolling away from the girl. The side of his head sheers off.

Before anyone can react, the blond’s jaw disappears. Bone and blood fly from his neck. He tumbles backward, hair like ripe hay in a patch of sunlight.

The girl on the ground convulses, scrabbling away on her elbows and heels like a crab. The third bullet goes high. The fourth smashes into a knee and travels straight up the leg. The wounded soldier shrieks. Panicking, the others return fire, but can’t work out where the rifleman is.

One grabs the girl, jerks her onto her knees, crouches behind her. Two others race for cover. Tracking ahead of the slowest, Santino brings him down with a lucky shot. The youngest disappears into the woods, and keeps on going.

Pierino lifts a rock the size of a loaf of bread and scuttles along the ridge. Santino loads the second clip, and nods. Pierino pops up, flinging the rock like a discus. It smashes down through leaves and brush. The German with his arm around the girl’s neck wheels to face the noise.