He is not yet old enough to contemplate his future, now in the hands of Stefano. It is a responsibility that suddenly dawns on Stefano, making him ponder the decisions that led him to this fate, decisions that were forced upon him, and those he made himself, the consequences of which he now must bear. That there should be another twist seems suddenly unreasonable.
There was a moment earlier, as he put the child down to study markings on a map, the child distracted by people in the town, when he wondered whether to leave him, to disappear quickly from his view. It is unsettling in a way to have the responsibility; yet, just as unsettling, perhaps more so, is the thought that he still might be capable of abandoning him.
“You must remain silent and stay here,” he says quietly. “Can you do that?”
When the child doesn’t answer, he wonders whether German is the boy’s first language, though the child does stay by the embankment as Stefano crosses the track.
At the rear of the silent house, where he is least visible from the other house’s occupants, there is a small space of yard that holds a water pump and a partially fenced pen where animals were once kept. Behind the pen is a badly damaged shed, and beyond that, for both the houses, is a pine-covered ridge that separates them from the road to the remains of Dresden. On the wall beside the back door leans an ax. Stefano examines it, smells it. There is no scent of freshly cut wood along its blade.
Near the shed, a pyre contains the remnants of burned and barely recognizable household items. In the dimming light, sticking out of the soil and debris, like a bent human arm, is a metal hatstand. Clothing, pillows, and linen are strewn and singed, along with bent and twisted pieces of metal resembling coat rails, pails, and picture frames. A blanket lies nearby, blackened and stiff, damaged more from the other elements than the fire. He moves closer to see scorched metal cups that were once trophies of some kind. He picks up one, its wooden base mostly burned away, searches unsuccessfully for a name before placing it back on top of the pile.
Inside the shed, part of a wall has been blown away. Pieces of wood lie strewn across the floor. The damaged wall looks interfered with as if, after harm by shells or air fire, someone, seemingly enraged, has continued to pull it to pieces, panel by panel. Looking closer, Stefano sees that some of the broken wood is not from the walls but from pieces of furniture that might once have been a crib and a nightstand.
1935
Stefano climbed up the rock wall and followed the steep road back to his aunt Serafina’s house, built into the side of the cliff. After his father died, his mother, then struggling financially, brought him and his sisters to his aunt’s house. In the days before they left, he had begged and argued that Agatha come, too. There were new rules now, his mother told him. Rules made by his aunt and uncle and ones that did not include pets.
His new home had a terrace, like their old house several miles away, but jammed between lots of others and without a patch of grass for Agatha, had she come. Above them were other houses with terraces. Washing dotted the coastline and caught the warm breezes. Tourists chugged past in boats to gaze upon the coastline and the yellow, red, and ivory buildings that jutted out from the rock.
A short set of stairs led from the terrace down to the cliffs above the water. On fine days the shimmering water was blinding, and he lived for these days when the sun was high and the water dazzled. There were no low rocks to climb down to the sea, not like at his old house. It was a high dive from the cliffs into the water. His cousin had taught him to dive, and they swam together most afternoons.
His cousin, Beppe, just turned eighteen, five years older than Stefano, was tall, lean, and muscled, with skin roasted a dark golden brown from the sun. The girls on the terraces above would sit outside to watch him and his friends dive in their tight-fitting swimming trunks. Beppe knew they were watching, and he basked in their admiration.
Stefano was also growing tall for his age and bronzed, though still lean and yet to grow muscled like his cousin. He had an old face, his aunt would always tease: Like you know things that you wished you didn’t. Like all us adults. Perhaps it is from all the books you study.
After his swim one day, Stefano entered the front room, its slate tiles warmed from the afternoon sun. His mother drew the curtains and told him to sit down.
Serafina stood in the kitchen to supervise whatever was about to be told. Stefano’s mother, Julietta, had looked up to her older sister, and trusted her with most family decisions. Julietta then told him that Italy had invaded Abyssinia.
“Why?” said Stefano.
“Because Il Duce wants to make our country stronger,” said Serafina, taking over. “We need to strengthen Italy’s power. We have lost so much over time.”
“Will we win?”
“Of course,” said Serafina. “With a great leader in charge, everything is possible.”
Stefano was skeptical. He had heard people say otherwise. He liked to sit near the shops in the center of the town and listen to the old men speak in the cafés. They had talked about Il Duce, Mussolini, but not in a good way. He had heard that not all men liked their leader. But he didn’t dare say that. He had learned very quickly not to give his thoughts away, especially to Serafina, who was fiery, and Uncle Enzo, who was always so serious, so passionate when there was talk of politics and war. Stefano did not remember his father being anything like that. He remembered that his father hated war.
“Mamma, I want to fight,” said Beppe.
Beppe’s father agreed. Enzo sat there with his one good leg, the other lost in the great world war. Even then Stefano was curious why they were keen for their only child to go to war when Enzo had nearly lost his life.
“Yes, you must!” said Beppe’s father.
Julietta looked at her son, Stefano, and he could read the fear. She would rather go herself than send her only son. But Stefano was tired of being the baby. He was tired of his mother always wanting to protect him, wanting to know where he went. Always fussing about the way he was dressed, putting him in trousers and starched white shirts for church. He wanted to be a man like Beppe was allowed to be, who seemed to have the freedom to do as he wished.
“Then I will fight, too,” said Stefano.
Beppe laughed, but his laugh was not spiteful. He patted him on the head. “You are too young. One day when you are big, but now you must stay here and look after your mamma.”
And Stefano resented this, that he was the only male in the family, old enough to be the one who must stay for his family, but still too young to go to war.
Julietta closed her eyes and said a prayer. She didn’t believe in war either. Stefano saw it all the way back then: that the two sisters were so very different. And later when loyalties were tested, he would remember the heat on his back from the glass behind him; he would remember the moment. If they had stayed there, if they had never moved north, his losses may not have been so great.
Present-day 1945
The back door is partway open, and Stefano pushes it back farther on its bygone hinges that faintly squeal. Old leaves that had remained peacefully undisturbed on the threshold scatter at the intrusion.
The air inside is pungently stale as he enters a narrow hall between a small storage area and a bathroom, before the front room opens up to reveal a living area, the kitchen, and what appears to be a bedroom at the far end of the house. The rooms are unable to catch the remaining light from the horizon, and Stefano switches on his small torch to survey in detail.
The front room is sparsely furnished, and there is more wreckage on the wooden floor, as if it has been dragged from the pile of burned rubbish outside. Shattered crockery along the perimeter of one wall suggests that items have been thrown against it. A painting that has been shredded still hangs on the wall. Stefano takes a moment to examine it, but the subject of the picture cannot be determined.