already arranged. Tomorrow night we have to get these two men into Florence, where some of our people — never mind who — will be waiting to take them out of the city. They will then be able to rejoin their units in time for the next big push northward. It will not be long now before Florence is in Allied hands.”
“I know all this. But I insist that you remember my position.”
“Of course. But these two men can’t speak Italian. If they go unaccompanied into the city and are stopped by the police or a German military patrol — which is more than likely — they’ll need someone with them, someone above suspicion . . . a member of your household, perhaps?”
There was a long pause as this sank in. Rosemary was too shocked even to feel fear. She burst out angrily, “How can you suggest that? Do you think I would allow anyone — anyone at all — to risk such a venture? No one, not even you, has a right to ask such a thing of us.”
The man made no reply. He was not looking at her but over her shoulder, at the staircase. She glanced around. Halfway up the first flight of stairs, in the dark, sat a figure watching them through the banister rails.
“Paolo!” gasped Rosemary. “How long have you been there?”
He got to his feet, embarrassed. When at last he spoke, it was not to his mother. Instead, he addressed himself directly to the man he now recognized as the one who had given him the message for his mother — the same man he had encountered up in the hills, the one who had rescued him and then restored his bicycle to him when he had thought it lost for good. Now he was almost sure he knew who this man was: Il Volpe himself.
“I could go,” he said. “I’ll take my bicycle. No one will suspect me. I’m a local boy. They know me. I could do it.”
T he next morning, while their two clandestine guests slept the sleep of total exhaustion in the cellar, the rest of the Crivelli household was in turmoil. Maria was in no shape to be of any use at all. She was convinced that the Gestapo would come at any second and they would all be shot. Rosemary herself was distraught. She felt she was being sucked into an escalating nightmare of danger, involving not only herself but now her family. She had never, ever fought with Paolo about anything as big as this before. Arguments and family squabbles, yes, but this brick wall of blatant disobedience and indifference to her entreaties was new to her. Last night this mad scheme involving Paolo as an escort for two escaping Allied prisoners of war had been simply foisted on her. It had all been arranged before Il Volpe had disappeared off into the darkness, and this morning all Paolo would say was “It’ll be all right, Mamma. It’ll only take an hour or two, and then I’ll be back — I promise.”
Constanza was anxious, too. He seems to think he’s the hero in some kind of adventure movie, she thought as she watched her brother nonchalantly eating his breakfast. Does he really have no idea how dangerous this is? Harboring two escaped prisoners of war in the cellar was crazily risky. But the whole enterprise had gone much too far now for either her or her mother to do anything about it.
Things only got worse as the day wore on. It became obvious that it was useless for either Constanza or Paolo to avoid all contact with their guests in the cellar. When the two men woke, at about noon, Paolo kept guard in the deserted yard and tried to stop Guido from barking while they slipped out to wash themselves under the cold tap. Maria was refusing point-blank to have anything to do with them, so it was Constanza who took them their food.
The two young men, sitting crouched on their mattresses in the semidark, were bored as well as scared, and desperate for company. Even in that dim light, the sight of Constanza did a lot to improve their morale, and they tried hard to detain her as they ate.
Constanza’s English was good. Now she wished it were better. But she was
“I know all this. But I insist that you remember my position.”
“Of course. But these two men can’t speak Italian. If they go unaccompanied into the city and are stopped by the police or a German military patrol — which is more than likely — they’ll need someone with them, someone above suspicion . . . a member of your household, perhaps?”
There was a long pause as this sank in. Rosemary was too shocked even to feel fear. She burst out angrily, “How can you suggest that? Do you think I would allow anyone — anyone at all — to risk such a venture? No one, not even you, has a right to ask such a thing of us.”
The man made no reply. He was not looking at her but over her shoulder, at the staircase. She glanced around. Halfway up the first flight of stairs, in the dark, sat a figure watching them through the banister rails.
“Paolo!” gasped Rosemary. “How long have you been there?”
He got to his feet, embarrassed. When at last he spoke, it was not to his mother. Instead, he addressed himself directly to the man he now recognized as the one who had given him the message for his mother — the same man he had encountered up in the hills, the one who had rescued him and then restored his bicycle to him when he had thought it lost for good. Now he was almost sure he knew who this man was: Il Volpe himself.
“I could go,” he said. “I’ll take my bicycle. No one will suspect me. I’m a local boy. They know me. I could do it.”
T he next morning, while their two clandestine guests slept the sleep of total exhaustion in the cellar, the rest of the Crivelli household was in turmoil. Maria was in no shape to be of any use at all. She was convinced that the Gestapo would come at any second and they would all be shot. Rosemary herself was distraught. She felt she was being sucked into an escalating nightmare of danger, involving not only herself but now her family. She had never, ever fought with Paolo about anything as big as this before. Arguments and family squabbles, yes, but this brick wall of blatant disobedience and indifference to her entreaties was new to her. Last night this mad scheme involving Paolo as an escort for two escaping Allied prisoners of war had been simply foisted on her. It had all been arranged before Il Volpe had disappeared off into the darkness, and this morning all Paolo would say was “It’ll be all right, Mamma. It’ll only take an hour or two, and then I’ll be back — I promise.”
Constanza was anxious, too. He seems to think he’s the hero in some kind of adventure movie, she thought as she watched her brother nonchalantly eating his breakfast. Does he really have no idea how dangerous this is? Harboring two escaped prisoners of war in the cellar was crazily risky. But the whole enterprise had gone much too far now for either her or her mother to do anything about it.
Things only got worse as the day wore on. It became obvious that it was useless for either Constanza or Paolo to avoid all contact with their guests in the cellar. When the two men woke, at about noon, Paolo kept guard in the deserted yard and tried to stop Guido from barking while they slipped out to wash themselves under the cold tap. Maria was refusing point-blank to have anything to do with them, so it was Constanza who took them their food.
The two young men, sitting crouched on their mattresses in the semidark, were bored as well as scared, and desperate for company. Even in that dim light, the sight of Constanza did a lot to improve their morale, and they tried hard to detain her as they ate.
Constanza’s English was good. Now she wished it were better. But she was
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