“The first communicants,” Paola whispered. “Don’t they look like little angels? I can’t wait until Marcella is old enough to make her first Communion.”

At the end of the procession came the altar boys, then several priests, all in rich brocade vestments. The Mass began. Everyone in the church sang the hymns and chanted the responses. A great wave of sound enveloped the church. I thought how different it was from the sparsely attended and anaemic services at home. There were prayers, there was a sermon. Then came the solemn part of the Mass. Incense was lit and the herby smoke waved over the congregation. The priest chanted in a low voice. Bells were rung. Then one by one the children came up to receive their first Communion. After they had done so, the rest of the congregation followed, one by one, up to the altar steps. It seemed to go on forever. I was feeling sick with hunger. At least these people are getting a wafer to eat, I thought.

Just when I began to hope it was over, the children were invited back to the altar steps to be introduced to the congregation. Then Father Filippo was assisted to the steps to give his blessing to the children and then to the congregation. Another hymn was sung lustily. The priests, altar boys, and first communicants processed out, and at last we were allowed to follow. I was delighted to see that coffee and sweet rolls had been placed on the tables beside the church. I waited my turn patiently as Paola chatted with other women, introducing me.

“Will Father Filippo stay or will he go back to his residence?” I asked.

“He will stay, at least for the procession,” she said. “See, a chair is being brought for him now.”

An idea had come to me during the long moments when the sermon was being given in language that I didn’t understand. Father Filippo had been the parish priest during the war, and priests heard confessions. Maybe Sofia had told him about the British airman. I had to work out how I could manage to have a word with him.

But as soon as we had downed a cup of coffee and eaten a roll, the town band arrived. They were dressed in medieval costume and marched proudly into the piazza, preceded by flag-bearers waving giant banners. There was a collective “Ah” from the crowd. People hastily finished eating and straightened their attire, eager to join the procession. The band finished the march it was playing and stood ready, with just the row of drummers keeping up the beat. Dum diddy dum diddy dum dum dum. The sound echoed back from the high buildings. The first Communion children left their families and were ushered into two lines, boys and girls side by side, which clearly wasn’t to the liking of some of the little boys. They stood waiting patiently behind the band.

Now the air was full of expectation. The buglers put their instruments to their lips. A great burst of sound came out, and from the church emerged the altar boys in their red and white cassocks, two of them swinging brass balls on long chains from which the scent of incense wafted. Behind them Father Filippo was carried in a kind of sedan chair, then came four men carrying a large brocade canopy over the priest, who now held up an ornate gold object. I couldn’t decide what it was, but Paola crossed herself, so it had to be some kind of religious relic.

They took their places behind the altar boys. Then the trumpets blasted again, the band struck up, and the procession started to move forward. I noticed a strange thing. There were few men among the waiting crowd. Then I saw why—a group of men came marching up holding ancient battleaxes and crosses. They were dressed in white robes and wore pointed hoods that hid their faces. The effect was quite alarming. I realised that the only similar thing I had seen was the clothing of the Ku Klux Klan. I glanced at Paola.

“The Society of Saint George,” she said. “A devotional society of the men of this town. It is an honour to be invited to join.”

I noticed then that their white tunics had a star on the breast. A many-pointed star.

As the procession moved solemnly away to the slow beat of the drum, the townspeople came to follow. We took our places with the rest of the women. Our route took us at a snail’s pace through the town. As we walked I had time to think. The many-pointed star was like the tiny replica that Gianni had given me. Was he saying that someone who was an important man in town had somehow been implicated in bloodshed? I glanced back at those hooded men. Which of them had something to hide?

Down through the village we processed until we came to the road that was lined with cypress trees, then on to a track through the fields and past several farmhouses before looping back again to the town. The weather that had started out brisk and bright was now clouding over. The wind had picked up, making the task of carrying the canopy challenging. The priest was finding it hard to keep his vestments in place.

“Let us pray that it doesn’t rain,” Paola said. “After two weeks of nothing but sunshine, surely God doesn’t want to rain on us today.”

We came up through vineyards and back to the road, then back to the piazza again. The canopy was carried to the steps of the church. The priest said prayers and gave a blessing. The band struck up a tune that was obviously a hymn as everyone started singing. I found myself watching the rapt expressions as the people sang. These were simple folk who really and truly believed. I felt a twinge of envy that I had never experienced such a feeling of belonging.

The hymn came to an end. The people dispersed. I noticed that Father Filippo had been left sitting on his chair, and I seized the moment. I went over to him. “Father, I am an Englishwoman,” I said. “I came here to find out about my father, who was a British airman, shot down in the war. He wrote a letter to Sofia Bartoli, but nobody in this town knows anything about him. I wondered if you knew anything more you could tell me.”