She nodded and went ahead, relieved that it was this quieter Italian and not the amorous one. That wouldn’t have worked out well at all.

The sun blazed as she headed up the hill. On either side of the narrow path, wheat fields shone a brilliant gold-green, the heat giving off a hazy fuzz as insects buzzed about, making the most of the summer.

“It is a beautiful day, yes?” he said, trying to make conversation.

She hesitated, then said, “Y-yes.”

“This is a good place to live, with the hills and wood.” He looked around as if genuinely pleased with the countryside.

    “Y-your English is good,” she said quietly. “How come you know it?”

“My family, we have a restaurant in the Alps, where rich people come to ski. I work as a waiter since I was young, and we have to speak English—German, too.” He walked on. “Are you the cook in the big house up there?” He gestured toward Fenley Hall.

“No, I’m the kitchen maid, but I do most of the cooking. Did you ever cook at your restaurant?”

The frown seemed to clear from his face, and a faraway look came into his eyes as he gazed out to the hills, as if he were seeing another horizon, another world. “I did. My grandmother, she teach me everything.” He turned to her, his dark eyes piercing into hers. “It is what I miss, those beautiful flavors of Italy. The tomatoes, the herbs, the red wine…”

Suddenly he laughed, and she saw a different, younger man, free and busy in his home.

“Is your home like here, with woods and hills?”

“A little. Some of the woods are the same, but high on the mountains there are great forests with pine trees. The peaks, they are covered in snow all winter. In the summer, when the sun is out, it is magnificent—like heaven on earth.”

“You must miss it.”

“I never wanted to be in a war.” He opened his hands and looked at them. “These hands are for cooking, for serving, not for fighting. I wish I was home, but I prefer to be here than in battle. It was very bad to see what men could do to each other.”

“I hope the Germans don’t invade here.”

“I hope not, too.”

They walked in silence for a moment, and then he asked, “And you? Where do you come from?”

A familiar flutter of nerves shot through her. She stared at the ground in front of them, unable to speak.

“Don’t be scared. I won’t ask you if you don’t want to say,” he said gently.

    She relaxed a little. “I-I don’t really come from anywhere, I suppose.”

“The beautiful girl who came from nowhere.” He gave her a playful nudge. “You like to cook hare?”

“I’ve never cooked it before. Don’t tell Barlow, but I’m in a cooking contest. I’m cooking it for my starter.”

He looked at her, intrigued. “And what is the prize? Money?”

She laughed. “No, something better. A job on the radio as an expert in wartime cooking. It would get me away from Fenley Hall. The rich people I work for treat me dreadfully.” She hadn’t meant to say this, but it just came tumbling out, all angry and upset like it had been coiled up inside for years.

He didn’t say anything for a while, and she thought he didn’t understand her properly, but then he said, “I hope you win.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

His eyes lit up, as if remembering another time and place. “Before the war, we have a cooking contest in our family, because me and my sister and brothers are always fighting. Each one says he or she is the best, so my grandmother, she said for her birthday we each had to make our best dish and she would be the judge.”

“That sounds fun.”

He laughed. “It was, even though my youngest brother was cheating, adding odd ingredients to other people’s dishes, capers and anchovies and paprika. We didn’t know until the night of the contest, and all the family were there—I have a very big family—and some friends from the village, too.”

“What happened?”

“Well, my brother won, of course. When my grandmother found out, she kicked him out of the contest and said we all won together. It was very funny, and there was a big feast.” His face beamed with the memory. “My family, we are good at making music, you see, and there is always dancing. My sister and oldest brother, they sing very well. Not the opera, just songs from our area, about life and love.”

She blushed at the word.

    “Can you sing?” he asked.

“No—not well. I’ve never sung in front of anyone before, just by myself sometimes. I don’t know many songs.”

“Can you sing something for me?”

“I-I—”

Seeing her stammering, he quickly said, “I will sing something for you, and then, maybe, you can sing after.”

And without another word, he began to sing in Italian, a simple, lilting melody, fast and uplifting. His voice was clear and loud—he wasn’t shy in the least. In fact, he sang like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When he finished, he made a small bow and said, “That was a country song called ‘La Bella Polenta.’ It’s about a dish we make using ground corn. My grandmother makes the best polenta in the world.” He looked delighted. “And now, can you sing for me?”

Her heart began racing. “I-I don’t know any songs, and my voice isn’t as good as yours.”

He grinned. “Any song will be good—I am not judging you. Music is for sharing. It is not for us to say who is good or bad.”

And so, nervously, she began. “I’ll sing you one-o. Green grow the rushes-o. What is your one-o? One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.” There she stopped. “I-I don’t know any other verses.”

“You have a very beautiful voice—you must sing more often.”

“I’m too shy,” she murmured. “I-I can hardly speak in front of people, let alone sing.”

He looked over, his head slightly to one side. “Maybe, if you come back one day, I can teach you.”

Suddenly, she began to feel overwhelmed and began walking faster. “Maybe I should go.”

He hurried to catch up with her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Please don’t go without your hare. It is just up here.”

At the top of the hill, he drew to a halt beside a meadow.

“This is the place,” he said. “I saw one here yesterday.”

“How will you trap it?” The man had neither a net nor a cage, nothing.

    He looked around the expanse of long green grasses, the occasional flash of yellow buttercups or white daisies. “Stay here. Don’t move. And don’t talk. We must be very quiet.”

With that he turned to the field. The grass was almost as high as his knees, and he gently began to walk through, heading first down the field and then across, all the way around the edge until he returned, full circle. But he didn’t come all the way back to her. He walked in a kind of spiral, the circle getting smaller every time he went around.

Every so often, he would look over to her, put his finger to his lips, and make a pointing motion toward the middle of the field, where the grass was slightly lower or flattened down.

Has he found a hare? she thought.

And if he has, why is he walking around it?

The spiral continued to get smaller, and his walking became slower, until he was almost at the flattened part of the field. She watched as he slowed almost to a stop, his eyes and face down at the patch of grass.

Then he gradually eased himself down, there was a bit of movement, and then he stood back up, his prey in his hands.

She let out a gasp.

His stride held a quiet pride as he marched back through the field toward her.

“How did you do it?” she gasped.

He took her basket and placed it inside. “The hare likes to hide not run. He will only run if you try to shoot him or if you walk up to him as if to catch him or tread on him. Otherwise he likes to flatten himself against the ground, pretend he is not there. If you are careful and do not frighten him, he thinks you haven’t seen him.”

“And then you can get him.”

“That’s right.” He handed her basket to her. “Your hare.”

Their hands brushed past each other as the basket passed from him to her.

“Thank you,” she said.

He shrugged. “It is not hard.” And then, all of a sudden, he smiled a soft, lilting smile that lit his whole face with the morning sunshine. “I catch hares at home a lot.”

    “Your home sounds lovely. I hope they let you go back soon.”

“And I hope you win the contest.” His eyes met hers. “You need some good luck, too.” And she was reminded that they were both prisoners in a way, both trapped.

There was a silent moment, the space between them suddenly so tight she could barely breathe, and yet so distant, as if the whole world and all its wars stood between them.

Is this it? she thought. Is this the moment when I have to leave? Head back to reality? The beds to be made, the lunch to be prepared, the dishes to scrub?

“My name is Paolo.” His smile was gone, replaced with seriousness—or was it sadness?

She opened her mouth to speak, but what should she say? “Tell Barlow that I got the hare.” Really? Is that all that I can think of? she thought, annoyed with her shyness.

He took a small step toward her.