“Fine then,” the priest said in a flat voice. “Make your confession, will you? I have business to attend to.”
“Yes, Father, but first—”
“Speak your sins, Old Paolo, please!”
“I’m worried about the deserters, Father. Are they all right? Do you have any word about them? Any news?”
Two seconds of a thumping heart, Rico’s loud prayers, Paolo pointing the barrel of the pistol forward, away from him, at the height of his chest, just below the screen. And then Father Costantino said, “As a matter of fact, I do. I just heard from a fellow priest in the North. The three deserters made it safely to Switzerland, crossed the border last night, very late. The Lord will bless you for helping them.”
Paolo took one deep breath, raised the pistol to the middle of the screen, and squeezed the trigger three times. The sounds echoed around him, three pops banging against his ears. He dropped the gun there. Stripped by the war of his old skin, filled to bursting with sinfulness, and yet, somehow, feeling as if he had done what needed to be done, what the horrors of war had required of him, Old Paolo hurried up the side aisle, quieted Rico, and told him it was time to go.
Forty-Six
Carlo awoke in darkness, but, after lying still for a few minutes, he could begin to sense the first faint gray light in the eastern sky. He drank from the river, washed his face there, found a shallow place where it was easy to cross, then, worried he’d already slept too long and there would be too much light, made his way warily uphill through the DellaMonicas’ hazelnut trees, hyperalert. At the top of the hill he rested, but there was a stretch of woods ahead of him, downhill now, and there was little chance of encountering anyone there. Beyond that, he’d be on SanAntonio property, at last.
The sleep and the familiar landscape had restored some of his confidence. He told himself Vittoria was too kind a soul to love him any less because he was lacking an eye. And that the chances were slim she’d have met someone else in the months he’d been away, and already gotten engaged or married. He’d wash again, shave, find clean clothes in his room. It might take them a day or two, but they’d meet behind the small barn again and be able to talk again, and touch. Just the idea of that was enough to carry him forward. In the warm morning he could let himself believe that a guardian angel had been protecting him all along: by some miracle, he’d survived the assault on the Licata beach and ended up with Ariana’s kind family; he’d slipped out of the house of the Duce supporter, managed not to be reported by the mysterious man who’d asked—twice—if he were a deserter; he’d been given meals, a pair of shoes, money. Simply because of the strength of his right hand, he’d avoided being killed and thrown into the pile of Italian bodies behind the Pietramelara police station. Most amazing of all, the train had derailed, or been sabotaged, and he’d survived that, too, and hadn’t starved to death or died of thirst between that gruesome hour and this moment.
Even so, there was still an open field to cross—Umberto’s property, yes, but a place where he might be seen if there were soldiers searching. It wouldn’t do to get caught now, after having traveled all the way from Sicily. He raised a prayer to Saint Christopher and Saint Jude, hurried past the small, empty cabin, through the wheat—not fully harvested, he noticed, which was unusual this late in the season—and ducked into the trees again not far from the stone they called l’altare. He crouched there for a moment and then crept forward silently. Full daylight now. Paolo and the others would have eaten their morning meal and, at this time of year, might already be harvesting the grapes, or at least preparing for the harvest, checking to see that the moment was right, that the small seeds inside the pulp had changed completely, not partially, from green to brown. The thought of seeing the people he loved lit a warm fire in his belly. He imagined the surprise, the greeting, Enrico nearly squeezing him to death and then running off to fetch his sister. Someone, Marcellina or Costanza, would remark on how thin he’d grown, and go upstairs to prepare a plate of food. Bread, cheese, salami, fresh vegetables!
He made himself go slowly, carefully, moving from tree to tree and standing behind each one for a few seconds, quiet as a hunter. Not far from the place where he knew the manor house would come into view, he heard voices. His own people, he thought at first, Paolo calling out the morning work assignment. But another step closer and he dropped to the dirt and flattened himself there: the words he’d heard were German words, not Italian. How could he have been traced here so quickly? Or were they simply checking every property within fifty kilometers of the ruined train?