“Something has frightened him,” Erich says.
“Perhaps it was the mention of the camp,” says Stefano. “I will try and help you, Michal. Perhaps find other family somewhere.” Though he is not sure how, if he can. “It will be all right. We will go back to the house and talk about it.”
Stefano reaches his hand forward for the boy’s, but Michal is unsure whether to take it, one arm still looping through the handle of the basket and his other small hand hovering uncertainly at his side.
“Come,” says Stefano, nodding in the direction of the houses, and the boy reluctantly follows.
As war had raged on, and the future had grown darker, children were not what he envisaged, much less wanted. Michal must be sent elsewhere, and his fate must be in the hands of others who are better equipped to look after him. Stefano’s own battles are still not over.
“There is no gas or electricity unfortunately,” says Erich, near the front door. “As you are aware from my sudden arrival last night, and from the state of the house, I’ve been away traveling, seeking work in other towns. But now I am fortunate to have found something temporary not too far from here. Factory work . . . nights, afternoons, could be mornings as well. I have to leave shortly, but I will bring some food back with me late tonight if you can wait till then.”
Stefano swallows back words of gratitude. He does not say which way he is thinking, though his decision has already been made.
“The boy can take the other room upstairs,” says Erich. “You can boil some water while I am gone. There is a small piece of washing soap in the bathroom. It is good enough until I can bring some more. The boy could do with a wash.”
Stefano wonders at the state of the German. He is thin, but he is certainly not lacking any nourishment. He has been cared for; that is obvious by his clothing as well.
“As you can see, my accommodation is not exactly distinguished,” Erich says with a half smile. “But you are welcome to it. I felled a tree from the forest earlier. You can chop the rest of the wood for the stove while I am gone this afternoon, if you are up to it.”
Stefano nods his thanks, though there is something about all of this that doesn’t feel right. He is acting as if he has nothing to lose, thinks Stefano. And sometimes these people are the most dangerous to know because they do not care if they lose you, too. Stefano looks down at the boy.
“But if you want to go in the meantime, I will understand that also,” says Erich. “You have choices at least.”
Stefano remembers the fields that hold little charity or food, and the roads that hold questions and the likelihood of more dead bodies. Germany holds little appeal now or in the past.
“Do you have enough food to get you through till tomorrow? I may be quite late tonight.”
“I have a little.”
“Then I hope you are still here when I return.” Erich extends his hand, and Stefano recoils internally. He can tolerate him because the war is over and there is no more fighting, but shaking his hand is an acceptance of trust. There is a hanging space of time before he does so.
“See! You have not exploded into a ball of flame,” says Erich.
“Thank you,” says Stefano, the word finally freed. “We will stay.” The boy steps closer to Stefano, perhaps for reassurance. He remembers doing the same as a young child when presented with situations he didn’t fully understand, and the protection he felt alongside his father.
Erich smiles, though it is not the smile of a victor, like he has just won a battle, but a slightly and unintentionally smug look of someone who expected the outcome, that things would go his way.
Stefano follows Erich to the front door. “You said ‘them’ before? About avoiding them next door?”
Erich pauses, perhaps reliving what he said.
“Georg, her husband, lives there, too. He has permanent injuries from the war and is very ill. Rosalind is his full-time nurse. He also has a temper, but you are quite safe if you don’t engage with him. They keep to themselves. They won’t come here.”
Stefano watches Erich walk southward from the house, past the clearing, to enter a forest trail that runs parallel with the main road. When he is out of sight, Stefano bends down to face the boy.
“Trust me!” he says to Michal.
Michal grips his hands together and shifts his feet uncertainly while his eyes stay glued to Stefano.
“I don’t want to go home,” whispers Michal, and his eyes begin to water.
And Stefano is wondering about the dark places that the boy has called home.
“What happened to you there?”
Michal is quiet again. He looks away, tears falling silently, afraid now of his memories that he would rather forget. Stefano feels his heart beat faster, racing to control the rush of emotions he is not supposed to feel: sadness, anger, tenderness.
With his hands, Stefano sweeps the tears from the boy’s cheeks.
“I won’t let anyone take you where you don’t want to go,” he says firmly. “Do you understand?”
And the boy nods.
“Friends must stick together, yes?” says Stefano, hand outstretched.
Michal reaches to accept the friendship this time, and Stefano firmly encloses the small hand in his own, feels the innocence and trust this gesture represents, and accepts now that they are bound.
1941
He was in the kitchen with his mother and sisters. His mother put some olives and cheese on his plate, then scooped up some fried tomatoes and peppers, and put them on, too. Stefano had only been awake a short while after a poor sleep.
Teresa was cranky, and he could already tell that she was looking for an argument. Nina chatted about the marketplace and the size of the onions. There was then a debate over the quality that she chose and the man whom Nina bought them from. Her older sister accused the other of buying only from the men that Nina wished to flirt with, concluding that she did not care about the quality.
His mother, however, was silent. She did not look at anyone, eating slowly, with little appetite.
Stefano couldn’t stand the bickering between his sisters that interrupted his thoughts.
“Enough!” shouted Stefano, which startled them to cease arguing, but he knew that the moment he left, they would start again.
His mother sat still. She had placed her knife and fork at either side of her plate and stared at the tomatoes.
“See what you do?” said Stefano, pointing at his mother. “All this fighting upsets us all.”
“Mamma,” said Teresa, back to her grumpy self again. “Why aren’t you eating?”
Without warning Julietta threw her face into her hands and sobbed. Stefano looked at his sisters for answers, but both were stunned into silence.
“I can’t take this,” his mother cried. “I can’t take that you have signed up to go to war.”
Stefano was not expecting this. She had spoken her fears but had always been logical, less emotional than his sisters. She was a small woman, quiet, unlike her sister, Serafina, who always dominated conversations. Julietta tended to stay in the background. Happy for someone else to take the glory for everything that happened. To see his mother break scared Stefano. Until that time he had not thought about the worry he was about to put her through.
He reached across to take her hand. “Mamma . . .”
But there was nothing to say. He couldn’t tell her that he wouldn’t be going; it was too late for that. He had already signed himself over to Mussolini’s army.
“It is good that your father is not here to see it. That is something to be thankful for. He would not have wanted you to fight for that fascist.”
“You had better not let Enzo hear you talk like that,” said Stefano, trying to make it lighter but not expecting her reaction.
“That old goat! He would send Serafina if he had the choice.”
“Mamma, it will be all right! I will be careful. Beppe and I will be together for this first battle.”