‘Who was he?’
‘Of course, at first we did not know, but once we knew the skeleton dated to the war years, people began to come forward with their stories, hoping for answers. Old Signora Togliatti whose family owned the littlealimentari, for example. She had a teenage brother who was sent to the Russian front, missing presumed dead. More than eighty years later she hoped that somehow it would prove to be him so that she might find some closure.’
‘How sad. And this man, you now know who he was?’
‘Pietro Parodi, dead at barely twenty-one. He had been one of Mussolini’s soldiers. At first he was proud and happy to fight for Italy but when Mussolini was overthrown and Italy surrendered, he was one of many cheering. Perhaps it seems strange to celebrate the humiliation of the country whose uniform you wore. But ordinary people had become weary, sick of the war. Il Duce – Mussolini to you – was no longer invincible, he had showed that by his foolish adventures in Ethiopia and by dragging us into Hitler’s war. Many wanted peace with the Allies whatever the price, but the Germans turned on us, installing Mussolini as a figurehead for their puppet government in the North. He insisted those fit and able present themselves to fight on for fascist Italy but thousands like Pietro refused.
‘Some joined partisan bands up in the hills but others lay low in their village homes. Pietro joined the local communist party, so I am told. Loyalties were divided but in a place like this we still had to live together. The butcher had a picture of Mussolini on the wall right up until the end but who could afford to starve themselves or their families? And those here who supported the fascists did not want to betray their neighbours’ sons like Pietro, whatever their politics. Then one day the Germans came.’ The priest’s voice tailed off. He gazed back at the altar.
‘What happened?’ Amy said quietly.
‘They called it arastrellamento, it means a sweeping up. Their soldiers stormed through the village looking for partisan fighters and deserters. Pietro’s sister told me she urged her brother to flee. Her family thought he had got away; they made excuses to themselves for why they never heard from him again. But others…’ The priest shook his head. ‘Something terrible happened here. Something that makes men lose their faith or cling to God, our only hope amidst the horror.’
Amy waited, she couldn’t imagine terrible things happening in such a peaceful pretty place.
‘Have you seen our village hall?’ Filippo continued. ‘That was built where a row of cottages once stood, burnt to the ground, their inhabitants with them. Others were dragged from their homes and shot in the square across from this church, against the far wall. Seventeen people died that day, the youngest victim a boy of thirteen. They had information that he acted as a messenger for a partisan gang up in the hills.’
‘How absolutely awful.’ Amy couldn’t begin to imagine it.
Filippo twisted his hands together. ‘Pietro’s return has brought old memories to the fore but it is not good to dwell on these bad things. We will parade his casket through the streets, the village band will play, after the service there will be feasting. In Italy all is celebrated with food, the good and the bad.’
‘And you wanted my help?’
‘The villagers have raised the money for a permanent plaque in honour of those innocent victims. Unfortunately, a lorry carrying cement reversed into the original commemorative obelisk some years back and it has taken all this time to agree on a suitable replacement.’
Amy nodded, not sure how she could possibly fit in.
‘There has been much discussion about where this tribute should be placed, no one could agree. The mayor placed a box on the counter of the bar for people to vote and the majority believed Sant’ Agata to be a fitting place. But where? I cannot decide on which wall, north or south? You appeared at the church door just as I prayed for God’s guidance. What better person to make the final decision?’
Amy put her hands to her face. ‘I can’t… I feel overwhelmed.’
‘Do not be, my child. I saw you light a candle. Think of that loved one.’
‘My grandpa Lance.’
‘He will guide you. Is he not up in heaven?’
In Alassio she’d found it so hard to imagine a younger version of Grandpa but now he seemed to materialise in front of her, the parting in his hair as neat as the crisp crease down the front of his trousers. She saw him walking down the aisle, his wheelchair gone. He turned towards one wall and then the other, his eyes settling on a space to one side of an oil painting of Saint Jerome in the wilderness. She waited for the doubts to come but she had none.
‘Just there.’ She pointed.
‘Thank you. I think that will be perfect. I hope you will be here to witness the unveiling, Amy. I understand you are lodging with our parishioner, Fernanda.’
‘I would love to come but I’m not sure how long I will be staying here.’
‘Of course, I understand.’
They walked in silence down the aisle. The priest stopped to lock up the church. Amy wandered across the piazza feeling slightly dazed. The priest’s surprising request had helped her as much as it had helped him. Inside Sant’ Agata she had felt closer to Grandpa than ever. Even if she never discovered the connection between him and the village, her visit had been worthwhile. She’d come to the right place.
An elderly lady she’d seen that morning smiled and wished herbuonasera. Another man nodded in recognition. Amy nodded back and smiled. It seemed that in less than twenty-four hours, she’d become part of the village.
* * *
Fernanda still hadn’t changed the bulb in Amy’s bedside light. She’d been sitting in the kitchen for the best part of the afternoon staring at the wall. Remembering.
It had been the weirdest day. Encountering that dreadful girl Stella Ferrando again had shifted something in Fernanda’s carefully constructed world. There was an English word for how she was feeling, she tried to remember it. She took Gino’s school dictionary down from its place next to the cookbooks on her high shelf and flicked through the much-handled pages. Discombobulated: that was the word. The English had good words like that, so did the Germans but she didn’t remember much German any more, it had been so many years since Violetta had tried to teach her.
Fernanda was still amazed how quickly she’d recognised Gino’s old love. Stella must be nearly sixty now. She looked it too, her forehead lined, her jaw a little droopy. Stella’s hair was a deep brown, she must dye it, no one that age had so little grey. But despite all that she was an attractive woman, her hazel eyes had kept their flecks of colour. Stella still had that certain something that had turned Gino’s head. Unforgettable, that was the word, in any language.
