They were all middle-aged, or even elderly. Some of them must have been in the village at that time. But I was met with blank looks.

Then an older, wizened man said, “There was a plane that crashed down in Paolo’s fields, remember? The Germans came and asked us about it, but we knew nothing.”

“I remember that Marco was angry because the plane burned two good olive trees,” another man agreed. “But of that plane there were no survivors, I am sure. It was burned completely.”

It occurred to me that they were not talking about my father’s plane. Perhaps his plane had not crashed exactly in this area, and he had been making his way south to escape from German-held territory when he came to San Salvatore. Clearly none of these men knew anything of a British pilot in their town. I decided to change the subject. “Do any of you remember a woman called Sofia Bartoli?”

That produced an immediate reaction. I was met with hostile stares. One of the men turned and spat on the ground.

“Did this woman do something bad?” I asked.

“She ran off with a German,” one of the men said finally. “Just before the Allies were driving the filthy Germans north. She was seen going off with him in the middle of the night, escaping in an army vehicle.”

“Going willingly with him?” I asked. “Are you sure of that?”

“Of course. It was the one who had been staying in her house. A good-looking man. An officer. My wife was told by Sofia’s grandmother that she knew she was sweet on a man. Well, you can tell, can’t you, when a woman has feelings for a man.”

“She obviously thought she’d have a better life in Germany than staying here, working day after day in the fields,” a man at the end of the table muttered. “Especially if her husband was already dead.” There were more mutters of agreement.

“She left behind a child?” I asked. “A baby boy?”

There were nods around the table. “Yes, Renzo. Her son. She abandoned him.”

“And Renzo still lives in this town?”

One of them looked up. “Here he comes now, with his father.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

JOANNA

June 1973

Two men were walking together into the piazza. One was a big bull of a middle-aged man, powerfully built with the grey curly hair and profile of the Roman Caesars. Yet in spite of his powerful appearance, he walked with a stick. The other was tall, muscular, and remarkably good-looking. He had the same strong chin, dark eyes, and mass of unruly, dark curls. He was wearing a white shirt, opened several buttons down to reveal a tanned chest, and dark, form-fitting trousers. The effect was of a Romantic poet, although rather more healthy-looking. A fleeting thought crossed my mind that it would be highly unfair if the most attractive man I had ever seen turned out to be my brother—until I reminded myself that I had sworn off men.

I kept staring at him, trying to see any hint of my father in him. But he was nothing like my slim and fair-haired father.

I was wondering what to say to them when one of the men called out, “This young English lady is asking about Sofia Bartoli’s son.”

The younger man, who I presumed was Renzo, gave me a cold stare. “I have the misfortune to be that woman’s son,” he said in remarkably good English. “But I remember nothing of her. What do you wish to know?”

“You speak English?” I was surprised and impressed.

The man nodded. “I spent a year working in London. In a restaurant.”

“Were you a waiter?” I was hoping to break down the obvious hostility that I could feel.

“I was studying to be a chef,” he said. “But then my father had a stroke. I had to return home to help him run his lands and his businesses.” He turned to give a deferential nod to the older man.

One of the men had risen and pulled out a chair for him. “Here, Cosimo. Take my seat,” he said.

“Not necessary,” the older man said. “We go inside to eat. Our table awaits us.” So that was Cosimo, the richest man in the town, the one who owned all the olive groves except for Paola’s.

He touched Renzo’s arm and let out a rapid fire of words in Italian.

Renzo turned back to me. “My father wishes to know what your interest is in Sofia Bartoli.”

I hesitated. “I believe that my father once knew her.”

Again the older man said something in rapid Italian and the men grinned. Renzo looked quite uncomfortable as he said, “My father thinks that maybe quite a few men knew her.”

The older man was continuing to stare at me. “You are German, I think,” he said in accented English.

“No, I’m English.”

“I think German,” he repeated. “I think you are Sofia Bartoli’s child with that German scum and now you have come to reclaim her land and her olive grove.”

“Absolutely not,” I said angrily. “My father was a British pilot. His plane was shot down. He was badly injured.”

I was still watching Renzo, wondering if he could have been the beautiful boy who was hidden away where only Sofia and my father could find him. But my father had written “our beautiful boy,” not “your.” That implied the child was theirs, not hers. Perhaps he had developed a real attachment to the little boy. “Tell me,” I said, “were you ever hidden away during the war?”