Chapter 37
Domenico rested his elbows on the table; he threaded his fingers together. ‘Your nonno was killed in the war like your mamma and papà told you. But he wasn’t a civilian casualty. The last time Arturo and I saw him alive was the day the Germans came.’
‘But why didn’t Papà tell me…’ Stella began.
Domenico exhaled: a long, sad sigh. ‘Sometimes something happens to a man that alters him so fundamentally, he fears that speaking about it will bring the whole edifice of his life crumbling down. And that is how it was with my brother.
‘Arturo was just eight years old on the day of the massacre. I was six, we two were the youngest of five children. Our two brothers were much older, away fighting, our only sister was nursing at a hospital in Trieste. Only Arturo and I were still at home. I hero-worshipped your papà. He was everything a big brother should be.’
Domenico closed his eyes for a second before he continued: ‘On the day of the massacre, the war in Italy was far from over. The fascist government in the North and their German masters were desperate and angry. Despite their denials, they must have known their once-inevitable victory over the Allies was now slipping away. Even at home, the partisan fighters were inflicting embarrassing losses. The Germans sent soldiers into villages thought to be hiding Allied prisoners of war or supporting the rebels. Revenge wasn’t an eye for an eye, the authorities announced they would kill ten Italians for every German killed by the partisans.
Danger was never far away. But nothing of that sort went on here, there were just a few local lads hiding away, ignoring the orders to go and fight.
We never expected the rastrellamento – the sweeping up of their enemies – to happen here.
‘There was no warning, no inkling of trouble until a young man bicycled into the village, sounding the alarm that the Germans were coming. Papà was calm, intent on reassuring Mamma but he told us boys to run and hide, he wanted us out of the way. Arturo and I ran past Sant’ Agata’s.
Fernanda was playing in the piazza. I grabbed her hand and took her with us. ’
Fernanda? Stella bit her tongue, not wanting to interrupt Domenico’s tale.
‘There was an old barn on the edge of the village, a broken-down carriage abandoned there. Arturo and I had discovered it some months before whilst playing hide and seek. We’d hollowed out a space beneath the seat; it would just about hide two.
I don’t know how we thought all three of us would fit in there.
But when we passed under the old stone arch, Arturo broke away from us.
He said it was better if we split up, that he had another hiding place.
I was used to doing what my big brother told me and we had no time to argue.
The roar of their engines, the shouting and the sounds of people running told us the soldiers were already here.
I pulled Fernanda into our hiding place.
‘We didn’t know what was going on but even in there we could hear gunfire, people’s screams. I’ve never kept so quiet and still in all my life. I held my finger to Fernanda’s lips to stop her whimpering. I was shaking, scared. I admit I wet myself.
‘It was several hours before we dared creep out. It was eerie, the streets quiet and still. The smell of burning hung in the air. Fernanda and I parted without a word. I ran home. Mamma clutched me to her, weeping. I asked for Papà. She broke down again.’
Domenico reached into his trouser pocket, brought out a huge spotted handkerchief and blew his nose. Stella realised she was chewing on her nails.
‘A neighbour was sitting in the corner of our living room, a nice lady, I don’t remember her name.
She told me Papà was in heaven and I must be quiet and good and brave like Arturo and not bother Mamma with any questions.
It was only then that I noticed my brother curled up in the corner.
I asked him what time he’d got home and where he’d been.
He didn’t answer. Just stared as though he didn’t know who I was. All evening, he didn’t say a word.
‘The next day, he was just the same, he didn’t utter a sound, just lay on our bed.
Mamma wandered the house in a daze. It frightened me.
I wanted to cheer her up and in my childish way I thought it would please her if I tidied the bedroom Arturo and I shared.
And that’s when I knew Arturo had hidden away close enough to see.
To be a witness. His zoccoli were by the bed.
You know what those are, don’t you, Stella?
A leather strap nailed to a block of wood.
All of us village kids wore them; no family here could afford proper shoes, not for feet that outgrew them in no time.
At first, I didn’t realise what I was looking at.
Then I held them up to the light and saw they were covered in blood.
I threw them to the floor and ran out into the street.
When I returned that night, they were gone. ’
Stella gasped. ‘Did he tell you he saw it all?’
‘He didn’t speak, Stella. He was traumatised, struck mute.
It was seven, eight months before he spoke one word.
From then on, it was as if I were the elder.
I took on the mantle of looking out for Arturo the way he’d looked out for me.
It was another twenty years before he told me he saw our papà shot in the back of the head.
When the soldiers drove away, he crept from his hiding place.
He stood in the pool of blood seeping across the piazza, until that shocked neighbour scooped him up and brought him home. ’
Stella clamped her hand to her mouth. For a moment she thought she was going to be sick.
‘He should have told us. We would have tried to understand.’
‘He just couldn’t talk about it. He spoke to me that one time only and never again. It was when I made the mistake of mentioning Fernanda’s name.’
‘But when you were children, you were all friends?’
‘Yes, we were, until that day. Of course, Papà hadn’t been happy about it.
He didn’t like us associating with the little sister of a woman who consorted with the Germans but Mamma used to calm him down, saying we were just children playing.
But from that day I hated Fernanda and her family.
Even at six years old I understood the gossip I heard linking Violetta to what happened.
‘I gathered together the remnants of a bottle of machine oil, an old rag, a box of matches. I was a tiny soldier preparing for my war. I planned to soak the rag, light it and put it through Violetta’s door.
I didn’t care if Fernanda was there or not.
My old friend was dead to me. But then I heard Violetta had not come home.
She’d perished in the bombing at the hospital where she’d been visiting a friend.
Fernanda had been taken in by a lady in the village.
That woman was my teacher, a kind person who was ever patient with me.
I hated Fernanda but I couldn’t have burnt that dear lady’s little house down, even if she had Hitler himself sheltering there.
‘Over the years, I began to realise it was warped of me to blame a seven-year-old child for the actions of her much older sister. But your papà’s trauma was too deep for rational thought.
It was only after his death that Fernanda and I started to exchange the odd word if we met.
Even so, we are far from being friends. And now you see, Stella, why Arturo tried to keep you away from Gino.
The thought of you marrying into that family – it was too much for him to bear.
He couldn’t stand the thought of Fernanda being your mother-in-law, a woman who won’t disown her sister, who even displays a painting of that fascist upon her wall. ’
Stella put her head in her hands. ‘I’m so sorry. No wonder Papà was so angry with me the day he died. If only I’d understood.’
‘You weren’t to know,’ Uncle Domenico said softly. ‘You’re not to blame.’