The grandfather, with some reluctance, lowers his knife arm to his side, and the girl is not looking at Stefano but shyly down at her feet.
These are poor, desperate people, like Michal and his mother, who perhaps have no home to go to, and Stefano suddenly understands that it is not just hunger they are afflicted with but that there is no certain end to their isolation and losses. They are outcasts here, everywhere perhaps.
“Don’t give up,” says Stefano suddenly in French, and the girl looks up while the grandfather watches him with hostile eyes. “There is a displacement camp another thirty miles west from here where you will be fed. You might find a boat abandoned farther along the river, probably your safest way to travel. Take whatever you want from this country. It’s yours.”
The man’s lines seem to deepen suddenly as his face relaxes. He is tired, weary. He is fighting for every inch of his life, daily, protecting his granddaughter, too. It is unlikely they have any other Jewish family left where they are going.
“Go!” Stefano says to them, handing them the lamp as well. “Take this. Don’t come back here. Go home to France. Take back what was yours.”
The man whose face was hostile crumbles slightly, his lips quivering, his eyes watering, and the years of sadness and hopelessness are exposed. It has been a while since the beggars have seen any kindness.
“Thank you,” says the girl, taking her grandfather’s hand to pull him away, afraid that Stefano will change his mind. “Come, Grand-père!”
They turn and head farther into the wood. He hopes they make it home safely.
Back in the small hut, it is dark. He can hear Georg’s heavy breathing. The German has fallen asleep. He haunts the woods, Stefano thinks, and it is Monique that he comes here for, that he hopes to find.
Stefano walks back along the dark path to Rosalind’s house, where the light from a candle flickers softly from within. He knocks on the door, and she answers quickly, as if she has been waiting by it impatiently.
“They’ve gone downriver. I could not find them in the thick undergrowth. But I don’t think they will be back. They know they have taken what they can and will try their luck elsewhere. Georg is in the hut if you are not already aware. He appeared rested.”
“Thank you,” she says from the half-open space.
“I’m sorry, but the lantern does not fare as well. It is resting in pieces beneath some trees.”
She nods, though he cannot tell from the light behind her, and from her silence, whether his buoyancy is appreciated given the circumstances.
“I hope you get some rest now, too,” he says as he turns to leave. She reaches her hand to touch his forearm, then withdraws it quickly.
He waits to see if she will say something, but he cannot see her expression or the point of her brief touch.
“Thank you,” she says again after several seconds, then gently closes the door.
He waits, wondering, perplexed, if perhaps she wanted him to stay longer, then returns to the darkness that holds no fear. For years it has been his ally.
1943
Toni came back from another commission with a broken arm, while Stefano returned only bruised and scratched but with a hardness and skepticism that weren’t there before.
The pair organized a gathering with Fedor—who still refused to sign up to fight—Conti, Alberto, and several other friends. But what started out as an excuse to drink and joke quickly turned into an opportunity to voice concerns about the government and the war. And soon the group was meeting several nights a week.
Teresa had said that Stefano frightened her a little, that he didn’t smile much, and that he had developed an attitude. How could he tell her what it was really like? It was hard being compared with how he was before, and though he loved his family dearly and wanted to tell them everything about his time on the battlefields, and what he witnessed, he knew his mother wouldn’t cope. Instead he often sought out the group who understood, even Nina. She had grown desensitized to stories of war, exposed to information shared by her husband and his friends. Stefano was aware of how strong she had become, and vocal in support of their ideas, while patiently caring for Nicolo, their busy toddler, who had been named after his grandfather.
The direction of their conversations went deeper at each meeting, and discussions began to fall on ways to avoid a war they felt was unnecessary. It was good to talk about things freely in Nina and Toni’s apartment, to not have to worry who was listening in, to share ideas, and to express their hatred of the Axis. Also, to take the opportunity to reminisce about Beppe, whom everyone had known, and whose death had brought this group closer together.
Such discussions could have led to their execution, so to protect themselves the group name of “Il Furioso” was created, as well as false names for whenever they sent messages to one another. Like Stefano, Toni feared that it was only a matter of time before he was called up again. And he was right to worry. Later in the war, injuries were no longer an excuse.
Stefano liked to hold his baby nephew, with more opportunities now that Toni’s arm was in a cast, while Nina was busy serving up plates of food.
“Maybe you two should get married in a church,” said Stefano, half joking. “That would make Mamma happy.”
“My church is in here,” said Toni, rolling out his good arm and gesturing around the house. “And particularly in there,” he said, pointing to the bedroom.
“Stop it!” said Nina. “Some respect, if you please.”
“I agree,” said Stefano jovially. “That is my sister, remember!”
“We might still do that for Mamma’s sake, Toni,” said Nina. “We still believe in God. The priests are anti-Nazi, like we are.”
“Most, perhaps,” said Toni, who could not deny his respect for many of the priests who had put themselves in danger by speaking out against Hitler. And they were a good source of news. They had switched radio channels to stop listening to the lackluster propaganda from Mussolini and his followers, and they were turning to more facts from the Vatican radio. It was where they had learned that the Allies had landed in Sicily and Rome had been bombed.
The meeting one night turned very serious. Conti’s cafés had become important sources of information, where he canvassed unwitting patrons for news, and others who offered it voluntarily. And Fedor had found a way of communicating with his sister in Russia, who passed on messages to her husband in the Russian army.
When they had eaten and talked about the country and food shortages, and the closing of businesses, more important discussions began again.
“I have heard that there is much unrest,” said Fedor. “My sources tell me that the Germans are struggling against the weaponry Russia now has access to. The Germans cannot hold their positions for much longer. And now with businesses closing, and being walled in, our country could soon be reduced to rubble. Unless we do something now, we will be destroyed or become prisoners alongside Germany. We must be on the side of who I believe to be the victors—the Allies.”
Fedor did not say who his sources were. Stefano believed, that with a brother-in-law in the Russian army, he somehow had access to more information than most on the situation in the East. Germany’s turning against its Russian ally had fueled Fedor’s hatred for their leader, especially with his sister and his mother’s family still living there. He was probably the most passionate and vocal.