A Harvest of Secrets(15)

Her mother kept her eyes forward, seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “In this country,” she said at last, in a voice lined with pain, “there are walls between the classes. Those walls have been there for centuries, Vittoria.” She paused, made brief eye contact, looked forward again. “But sometimes you can find a door in them, and step through it. Perhaps later, in a few years, in some better future, you and Carlo will be able to resume your friendship.”

Her mother hadn’t said anything more on the subject, and hadn’t lived to see that better future, to know about that friendship. Standing with her back to the manor house, still trembling with anger, Vittoria thought back over that conversation, and the silent years that had followed it, and wondered why she and her mother had allowed her father—with his shouts and threats and table pounding—to rule over them like some kind of domestic duce. Much later, she had, in fact, discovered a doorway in that ancient wall, and found the courage to step through it, and, in that risky territory, she and Carlo had made something more than a friendship. Much more. But they had never been brave enough to talk about the lost years, not yet at least. She felt too guilty, and, no doubt, his hurt was too deep.

Now, in the warm starlight, she walked across the courtyard to the barn, as if she might find him there and apologize for old insults. Inside the large, open doorway she stood and let her eyes adjust. The air smelled of hay and horseflesh and, faintly from another room, old wine. There were tools of all shapes and sizes lined up neatly against one wall, and, through another door, the horses. She felt wrapped in a warm blanket of memories.

In the shadows she could see Old Paolo grooming Antonina, the black mare Enrico loved, running the brush in practiced motions along her withers. Ottavio neighed, seeing her, and Paolo looked up. “Foreign territory for you, Signorina,” he said, and it was hard to tell from the tone whether he was merely stating a fact or making a comment about her luxurious life and long absence.

“Let me do that,” she said, reaching out a hand. “It’s been so long since I touched them.”

“No, Signorina. If the Signore saw that I’d allowed you to groom a horse again, within one hour I would be on the road with my belongings in a sack, walking toward the land of hunger.”

She stood by silently and watched him work. “We argued, just now.”

Paolo grunted, didn’t make eye contact. “Not my business, Signorina,” he said, but she saw, or thought she saw, something new running across the sharp planes of his face. Fear, worry, anger—she couldn’t read it, but she felt again a deep affection for the man, a tenderness from her younger years. He hadn’t shaved in several days, and the white whiskers put her in mind of the few times she’d seen snow and ice coating the grasses between the vines. Something—a thought, an idea, an emotion—had just scurried along beneath that frosty lace, she was sure of it. The rest of the barn was bathed in a deep silence, the other workers up in their beds, she guessed. But something wasn’t right; she could feel it in the air, sense it in Paolo’s voice. Why wasn’t he with them as he normally would be?

“I told him I wouldn’t go on the deliveries again. No more Nazi fingers on my leg. No more leering SS officers.”

Paolo grunted, patted the horse’s flank, then faced Vittoria with his strong arms hanging straight down and the sides of his mouth turning down and the outsides of his eyes, too. “Signorina,” he said, and then he paused, one hand squeezed into a fist, the other clutching the brush.

She waited.

“Signorina, I have been breaking my mind, thinking about this. It is why I am not asleep. I have something to ask you. And for this something, I could lose my life. My work and my life. And I could endanger yours, also. If you wish me to remain silent, I will.”

“Ask,” she said. And then, since it had sounded too much like a command, and she was suddenly embarrassed in front of him, she added, “Please ask. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

He nodded, glanced at the doorway, then over his right shoulder, into the other rooms. He shuffled a half step closer. “First,” he said quietly, “I am sorry I can do nothing about the Nazi officer. I saw what he did when you came with us on the delivery. I could do nothing then. It makes me feel—”

“I didn’t expect you to do anything, Paolo.”

“Second . . .” He paused and looked at her for almost half a minute. “Second, ah . . .”

“Speak freely, please, Paolo.”

“Ah,” he said. He placed the brush on a shelf behind him and turned back to her. “Since the Germans, you know . . . since you aren’t liking the Germans much, there are . . . people. We know people. I know them. Who . . . who are fighting them. Partisans, they’re called. Partigiani. Fighting the Germans . . . in secret. In the hills and . . . and here, near us. Sabotage, passing arms, passing secrets, studying movements of troops and giving that information to certain bosses . . . Hiding deserters. Even, sometimes . . . killing. I have heard that there are many such people in Italy now, all over Italy.” He stopped and watched her. “I myself now have something to do with them, and by telling you this I am handing you my life.”

“You can trust me, Paolo.”

He blinked, seemed unsure. “These people want to know if they could use this barn to sleep in when the cold nights come, and have a little food or water in the meantime, when they’re passing by.”