Страница 88 из 109
When the time came, he did what he had to, as gently as he could: he hurt her. And when he was done, he kissed and kissed her. “The first time’s bad for girls,” he said, and promised, “It’ll be better from now on.”
They talked, after, about the life they’d lead. The houses Santino would build. The garden Claudia would grow. The children they would have. They know life will be hard: one bad year can sink a mountain family for a decade. But there will be chestnuts to roast or boil whole, and to grind for sweet brown flour. Wood for tools and furniture, and to burn for warmth. Cornmeal for polenta. Eggs, and the occasional chicken to stew. “Stonemasons get paid in cash sometimes,” Santino said. “I’ll buy you some goats with money, or I can take them in trade. You can make cheese for us, too.”
She giggled then and told Tercilla’s story about making cheese when she was a bride. There were a dozen ways for cheese to fail, and Tercilla found them all. When at last she proudly unmolded her first successful wheel of fontina, Domenico found a long black hair sticking up right in the middle. Solemnly he pulled it out and held it up for her consideration. Tercilla said, “I guess that’s why Mamma told me to wear a kerchief,” and for some reason it struck them both as madly fu
Smiling, Santino rose on an elbow and kissed his wife again. He took his time. He found her rhythm. He kept his promise: this time it was better.
Sleep overcame them, and they woke next to full light. They ate, and played house, pretending the hunchback’s place was their own. Santino walked around the ruined barn and told her how it could be repaired. There must have been a garden here last spring, Claudia decided. A few tomato vines survived bombing and neglect, their fruit sweeter than apples. A lone corn stalk stood in one corner. “Why aren’t there any ears?” Santino asked, lifting its leaves and finding nothing. Claudia told him, “They have to be in a big group of plants, or the ears don’t get fertilized—”
She stopped, blushed, but did not turn away. Instead she held out her hand, and led him back into the house.
Once, when he was fifteen and apprenticed, Santino worked in the garden of a rich man. There was an old statue of a naked girl, lean and strong, and unafraid. “Diana, the huntress,” the master told him. The marble girl watched over them as Santino swept stone chips, and packed the hearting, and learned how strength could fracture but be rebuilt.
Now that girl is his. Living skin like cool marble. Lean and strong. No longer afraid. “Moglia mia,” he whispers, his fingers grazing her breast, her hip, her thigh. “My wife. My wife.”
Claudia awakens, turns over. She meets his need with a woman’s certainty, her hands on his arms, his shoulders, his broad back. Measuring the shape and feel and weight of him. Learning him by heart. “My Santino,” she whispers when he shudders. “Always my Santino. No matter what.”
She does not cry when her husband leaves. Save your tears, she thinks. You may need them later.
BORGO SAN MAURO
19 SEPTEMBER
Sunlight glints off a river that looks chrome-plated. A sudden, sharp heat headache begins, just behind Eduard Knyphausen’s eyes. He sweats in full battle dress under the Italian sun’s assault. Summer’s last stand, he thinks. Not even noon, but hot already.
San Mauro’s been sealed off for three days, surrounded by a reinforced company of an armored grenadier division, part of three Waffen-SS battalions in position all over Valdottavo. “Sturmba
“And where are the men who have left all these poor people behind?” Knyphausen asked icily. “In the mountains, among the partisans and bandits, that’s where! Listen carefully: I want the bodies of my men back. I want the guilty to surrender. If they choose not to turn themselves in, they will be responsible for what happens here, not I.”
Finally the church bell strikes ten. Knyphausen nods. Noise erupts. Officers shout through bullhorns. Troops standing ready at the edges of the town yell, “Raus! Raus! Raus!” smashing open every door, pounding through every building. Houses vomit ski
With whips and dogs, squads of soldiers herd them toward the center of town. It seems like chaos, but every move is choreographed. Several hundred townspeople join scores of peasants relieved earlier of their market produce and corralled since dawn in the central piazza. There are machine gu
A sergeant approaches and salutes. “Sturmba
Von Thadden failed to arrive last night; that much is true. Knyphausen flicks at his boot top with a ceremonial riding crop. “What proof does he offer?”
“Oberleutnant Schmidt’s papers, sir. He says Schmidt was killed, but the bandits want to arrange an exchange for the others. The man’s unarmed. Shall we let him through?”
Temples throbbing, Knyphausen says, “I’m getting out of this sun. Send him to my office.”
His headache worsens when he hears what the Volksdeutscher has to say. His name is Ugo Messner, and he has been held prisoner since June, when bandits confiscated a truck and the load of fabric he was delivering to the Vaterland. Perched on a wooden chair, Messner looks nervous and ill-fed. His well-made suit is dirty and ragged. He claims to know both Reinecke and von Thadden personally. Schmidt’s papers are genuine and bear rust-colored evidence of a wound, although there’s no telling how serious or whose.
“I’m not sure how many Germans they’ve taken hostage,” Messner says. “At least nine. If the bandits see your troops withdrawing, all prisoners will be released. If not, they’ll execute the captives. They say those five German soldiers who were killed— they were caught raping a local girl. The partisans are peasant boys, Sturmba
Neither of Knyphausen’s choices are attractive. Negotiate with terrorists or be held responsible for a general’s death. Less than two hours to deadline…
Messner says, “Bitte—if I could just speak to Standartenführer Reinecke myself?”
It’s an out: pass the problem up the line. Raising his voice slightly, Knyphausen calls, “Buntenhof: get Reinecke for me.”
Waiting, Knyphausen goes to his office window to check on the situation in the piazza. The crowd is nervous but cowed. Messner asks for a cigarette, coffee, and food, relieved to be among Germans, and full of questions. The bandits told him that the Führer had been wounded in an assassination attempt, that the Wehrmacht has lost ground in France, the Low Countries, in the East, in southern Italy. Reluctantly, Knyphausen confirms it all. In the past two weeks, the Soviet army has reached Yugoslavia, linking up with Tito’s partisans. The Americans and British have taken Brussels, Antwerp, and Liège. Messner looks stricken, but Knyphausen is happy to provide the facts he pins his own hopes on. “We’ve blown up the dikes and flooded the lowlands. That will slow them down. And the Führer has a stupendous new weapon, even better than the Vengeance 1 missile. What we need are more tanks and a little time. We can turn this—”