Fire in the Hills (10 page)

“There's room at the table,” said the man, opening the door wide.

The woman stopped halfway to the table. She wrung her hands.

“Come in.” The man stepped back politely. “Please.”

Lupo went in with Volpe Rossa at his heels. The couple had clearly already finished eating, but some soup remained in a pot. And there was an end of bread.

Lupo quickly filled his mouth. He was hungry. But more than that, he wanted to have an excuse not to answer questions right away. Eating would give him a chance to think and answer smartly. Volpe Rossa was smart. Lupo was determined not to be a burden to her.

But the farm couple didn't ask questions.

When they finished eating, Lupo and Volpe Rossa thanked the couple and went out the door. Daylight was fading fast.

Volpe Rossa looked back over her shoulder. “They're not watching. That's a good sign. They don't want to know which way we've gone. They're decent. Good people.”

“Maybe we should ask to sleep in their barn,” said Lupo. “See it there?” He pointed to the low wooden building.

“No. We don't ask. Let's just do it.”

They headed for the barn. It was surrounded by a wide swath of mud. It stank. Hogs.

“Hogs can be vicious,” said Lupo.

They walked off into a field, instead, and lay down in the open.

Lupo's first day as a
partigiano
was over. He had food in his stomach and nothing horrible had happened. Nothing horrible.

An owl called intermittently. A
gufo
—Ivano's war name.

Oh Lord.

Lupo put his hands over his ears and slept.

16

V
OLPE ROSSA LED THEM from the dirt road to a paved one. By noon they saw a big town ahead.

 

 

An Italian policeman rode up beside them on a bicycle. “Good day,” he said.

Volpe Rossa hardly looked at him. Lupo was surprised. It seemed she had a different persona for every encounter.

“Good day,” Lupo finally said.

“What are you doing, going into town?”

“What everyone does in town,” said Lupo.

“Then you might as well go home,” said the policeman.

“And why is that?” asked Lupo.

“The shops are closed. All over Italy. It's a general strike.” He sighed. “No one's got money, and the rations are too little. And now the few who have jobs aren't working, so they'll have even less money.” He cycled away.

They walked steadily and stopped when they reached the edge of a large piazza. Dozens of people milled about. Some stood with arms crossed at the chest belligerently. Some carried signs saying
PANE E LAVORO
—bread and work. Others held signs against the rationing of basic foods.

From a road at the far corner of the piazza German police came riding through on motor scooters. They pointed guns at the demonstrators. Guns! Everyone ran.

Volpe Rossa walked quickly down an alley.

Lupo had to run to catch up. “What's going on?”

“You keep surprising me with what you don't know. Mass meetings have been forbidden for months now. The police are supposed to shoot to kill.”

“Kill? For carrying signs?”

“They killed twenty-three workers in Bari and nine in Reggio.” She wove in and out of small streets. At one point Lupo was sure they'd passed this way before. Then she went into a coffee bar. Lupo followed, peering hesitantly into the dark of the inside, after the bright sun. Volpe Rossa waved to the man behind the counter, who gave a little flick of the chin in welcome. She went to the back of the room and down a narrow set of stairs.

Cots lined up in the cellar. Most held men who were talking to one another in soft voices. Bandaged men. This was a makeshift clinic. The men looked up with silent fear on their faces. Two women stood by a food table and stared, too. It wasn't Volpe Rossa who scared all of them; they looked right past her to Lupo.

Just that pause in the conversation brought a tall woman rushing in from a side room. She stopped when she saw Lupo. Her eyes passed to Volpe Rossa. She wiped her hands on her apron and leaned against the wall, as though she might collapse without its support.

“It's okay,” said Volpe Rossa. “Lupo's with me.”

The women at the table turned now and continued their work. One ladled pasta into bowls; the other covered them with beans and tomatoes. Volpe Rossa went and kissed them on each cheek. Then she kissed the woman leaning against the wall. She went from man to man, kissing hello. And she served the bowls to the men. They fell to talking again and ate.

Lupo still stood at the foot of the stairs. The smell of the food made his tongue feel thick. He and Volpe Rossa hadn't eaten yet today.

After Volpe Rossa served the last man, she brought a bowl to Lupo. He sat on the floor and shoveled the delicious food into his mouth.

“If there are ever Germans watching, eat standing up,” said Volpe Rossa. “Jews never stand when they eat.” She got a bowl and perched on the edge of a bed to eat. The other women did the same.

When he'd finished, Lupo helped carry the pots into a small kitchen. The three women washed up, moving around one another with intimacy, as though they'd been friends all their lives.

Their talk turned to the real business fast. There were two possible jobs Volpe Rossa and Lupo could help do. One would carry them northwest to Rome. The other would carry them northeast, much farther, all the way to Florence. The second was more perilous—but, then, nothing was without danger.

“We'll go to Florence,” said Volpe Rossa.

Florence was closer to Venice. Lupo wondered if Volpe Rossa had made the choice for his sake.

The next morning Lupo found himself on a bicycle, pulling a milk cart behind. He had hated waiting to start the journey. It was better to act fast on decisions that scared him. But no one would deliver milk at any time other than morning. So there was no choice.

Volpe Rossa was on a bicycle, too, but she rode ahead of him, and she didn't pull a cart. Her bicycle had a wire basket with another basket inside it—a large woven one.

Lupo's cart held five rifles, under a layer of straw, with milk jugs on top and an oilcloth covering it all. Volpe Rossa's basket held sticks of dynamite under a pile of ribbons. Her hair was tied in ribbons, too. They were to deliver everything to a farmhouse halfway to the next town. And they had a rule, the only rule of the
partigiani
: do your job. There was no discussion of at what price. They were to deliver their cargo. Period.

The irony of Lupo, who hated guns, carrying these rifles didn't escape him. But guns could be used to stop violence as well as to do violence. That's what Volpe Rossa said. That's what Lupo held on to.

A kilometer before the farmhouse they'd see a pile of stones beside the road. That's how they'd recognize it.

They had been on the road only half an hour when they heard a car behind them.

Lupo pedaled hard and came up beside Volpe Rossa. He hooted at her lasciviously. That was their game.

If the car held Germans, Volpe Rossa was supposed to answer in Italian—because Germans couldn't tell one Italian dialect from another. But if the car held Italians, then Lupo had to be the one to answer.

The car pulled alongside them. “Young lady,” called the German officer in Italian. “Is he bothering you?”

“I'm managing.” Volpe Rossa gave the officer a smile.

“Get out of the way, boy,” said the officer. “I want to speak to this young woman. Can't you see that?”

Lupo fell back a little.

“A girl as pretty as you is target practice for these bumpkins,” shouted the officer over the rumble of the car motor. “How about I throw your bicycle in my trunk and give you a lift wherever you're going?”

“You're generous,” said Volpe Rossa. “But you have important things to do. And I can handle boys like him.”

The officer pulled his car in front of Volpe Rossa's bicycle and stopped, blocking her way. He got out.

Volpe Rossa put her hand behind the small of her back and secretly waved Lupo on, past her.

Lupo pedaled around them. His ears rang with fear. He dared to look back. Volpe Rossa held her basket and the officer was putting her bicycle in his car trunk.

No!

Should Lupo stop?

He looked back again. The officer's hand was on Volpe Rossa's back as she stepped up into the car. His hand slid down her body.

Lupo looked straight ahead and pedaled faster.

The rule was do your job. That was the only rule. And his job was to deliver those guns. If he did something rash, both he and Volpe Rossa would be in trouble for sure.

Right now she might be in trouble and she might not.

No. He knew she was in trouble. That officer's hand told him.

The German's car zoomed past, up the road.

Tears blurred Lupo's vision. Volpe Rossa had to know how to take care of herself. She had to.

He pedaled and pedaled.

Volpe Rossa was in a German officer's car.

He pedaled and pedaled.

He was alone.

Again.

He'd been alone so many times, and still the sense of desperation never lessened. If another German officer came, he had no game to play now—no Volpe Rossa to pretend to be flirting with.

He wiped away his tears and pedaled furiously. He passed clusters of houses, and wagons now and then. Men on scooters whizzed by. And one car.

He'd been pedaling for hours, searching the sides of the road. Had he missed the pile of stones? What if someone had moved them? A sour taste filled his mouth. He was sure he'd missed it now. Stupid stupid stupid him. He couldn't do it without Volpe Rossa.

And there it was. Finally. Such a little pile. Only a kilometer more. He pedaled right up to the farmhouse.

The farmer's wife was outside before he got off the bicycle. She was enormously pregnant. She put her hands on either side of her belly and looked up and down the road. “Bring it into the barn.”

17

L
UPO LAY ON OLD STRAW in the barn. He couldn't fall asleep. Fear swirled in his head. Volpe Rossa was gone. He had failed her. He knew that now. The rule might be to do your job, but how could anyone do their job if their partners abandoned them? He should have done something.

The wide wagon beside him held a layer of rifles under a false bottom—guns that had accumulated there from milk carts over the past few weeks.

He'd be given another job in the morning. A job involving all those rifles.

That was crazy. Lupo had no experience at this
partigiano
thing. He was lousy at it. He needed Volpe Rossa. Without her, he was a bumbler. No good to anyone.

If she didn't show up, he'd get back on the road to Venice. Head home. He had never stopped wanting to do that the whole time he was at Rina's—he had just planned to wait till the Germans were gone first. But at the rate this war was going, they might never be gone.

He rolled onto one side. Then onto the other side. Then onto his back again.

Samuele had died. Maurizio had died. Ivano had died. Anytime Lupo loved someone, they died. He'd be better off never caring about anyone. And if Volpe Rossa was still alive, she was better off without him.

It was true. He couldn't save anyone. So there was no point trying. And there was no reason he should feel so ashamed of his thoughts right now.

He stared unblinking until his eyes burned. He needed to sleep. He was too tired to think straight.

The barn back at Rina's farm had been a good place to sleep. This barn would be good, too, if he only let it. He opened his senses to the barn.

Horses weren't as noisy as oxen, but they swished their tails and stamped. And one of these four horses had the habit of throwing back its head and snorting.

The barn door creaked loudly. Lupo lay dead still.

“Lupo?” came Volpe Rossa's whisper.

He ran to her and they clung together in the dark. She was here. Breathing warm and strong. Lupo went weak with relief. “How did you get away?”

“He let me off in the next town. But I had to wait till I was sure he was long gone. Then I pedaled back.”

“Let's go up to the farmhouse. You must be hungry.”

“He fed me.” She pulled away. Then she walked past him and lay down on the straw.

Lupo lay beside her. “Did he . . . Are you all right?”

“I'm always all right.”

“No one's always all right.”

“I am.”

“I shouldn't have left you. I'm sorry.”

Volpe Rossa sat up. “Don't talk stupid. You did your job. And we're both still alive.”

“I'm glad you're alive. I was so afraid.”

“Don't waste your energies worrying about me. Ever.” She lay back down.

“What happened to the basket with the dynamite?”

“I found a good person in town. I gave it to her. Riding back with it would have been too risky. He might have passed me again.” Her voice broke. She rolled onto her side, so her back was to Lupo. “So I didn't do my job. But you did yours. And these are good people. Sleep now.” Her voice sounded defeated.

Lupo wanted to touch her shoulder, to comfort her. But he didn't dare.

After a while, he sang in a hush. Volpe Rossa joined him.

When they finished, they lay there in silence.

“Lupo,” whispered Volpe Rossa after a long while, “I'm glad you're alive, too.”

 

In the morning, the pregnant woman climbed onto the wagon bench with Volpe Rossa by her side. She never told them her name. Lupo sat in the wagon with two bicycles. If they were stopped, the story was that they were delivering the wagon to a farmer outside the next town—whatever the next town might be at that point—and the bicycles were so that the woman and girl could return home, while the boy stayed to help the farmer.