He smiled up at me. “The war. Such a tragic time. So much suffering. So much useless loss of life.”

“Do you remember Sofia Bartoli?”

He was still smiling. “Sofia? Such a sweet young girl. How sad she was when her man—what was he called, now? Let me think . . . Giovanni? No, it was Guido. That’s right—when Guido did not return and she realised he was dead.”

“But my father,” I said. “The British airman. Did she never mention him to you? Did you know about him?”

He frowned, trying to concentrate. “You are not from around here?” he asked.

“No, Father. From England.”

“England. A long way away. A heathen land where they do not have the true faith.”

I realised then that his mind had gone. He remembered Sofia, but if she had told him about my father, then that memory had long been lost.

I tried to think what I might ask him that could jog his memory, but at that moment some of the men came up to him. “Come, Father. We will take you to your place at the table. I am sure you are hungry.”

Father Filippo smiled. “Food is the one pleasure left to an old man,” he said as they helped him to his feet. He glanced back at me. “It was such a long time ago,” he said. “Old memories can only open old wounds. Sometimes I give thanks that my memories have faded.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

HUGO

December 1944

Christmas was almost upon them. Sofia reported that Cosimo had shot a wild boar in the forest. “We have to keep it a secret,” she said, “because we are not allowed to own weapons, and if the Germans found the boar, they would take it from us. They love their meat. But our men will cut it up in the forest and deliver a portion to each family in San Salvatore so we can each have some meat for the holiday. And guess what I will do? I will make a wild boar ragu. The tin you gave me contained tomatoes! I am so excited. And I’ll make a chestnut cake. A real holiday feast.”

After she had gone Hugo pictured her face, her joy. She finds happiness in such small things, he thought. He found himself comparing her to Brenda, who never seemed excited by anything these days. He knew she found life at Langley Hall boring. She found their county set boring. But it wasn’t as if they were in the middle of the Sahara. There was a fast train to London from Godalming, and she certainly went up to town enough, shopping and even going to clubs. She drank a lot, any kind of cocktail, and he was pretty sure she had used cocaine. He saw her as a trapped animal in a beautiful cage.

He shut her image from his mind and thought instead about Sofia. He wanted to give her a Christmas present. He had not managed to catch another pigeon. In fact, he rarely saw birds now that the temperature had dropped and there was a frost at night. He found it hard to keep warm, even when wearing his own and Guido’s clothing at once and lying on the sheepskin. He tried to move more during the day, and spent hours hopping around, poking about the rubble. The bombing had been thorough. Not much had survived, apart from the walls of the chapel. He found odd pages of books, now so damaged by rain that they were barely legible. He found an almost complete missal with a battered leather cover. He was going to leave it but then changed his mind. It didn’t seem right to leave something so old and sacred to be destroyed by the weather. He picked it up and tucked it inside his bomber jacket. He wondered what other valuable and rare objects had been left behind by the monks when the Germans had turned them out. Sofia had said that the Germans had taken the paintings from the chapel. He hoped the monks had been able to take their chalices and other precious objects, because there certainly wasn’t anything precious to be found lying amid the rubble. Just more bodies, probably, he thought.

He was making his way back when he saw it—the sun sparkled on something that looked like a coin. He bent with difficulty and picked it up. It was a holy medal—a woman stretching out her hands with tiny words written around her. La Madonna, he thought, and realised he had his Christmas present for Sofia. He returned to his sanctuary and sat polishing the medal on his shirt until it looked almost new. Then he thumbed through the pages of the missal. The end sheets were marbled. He tore one out carefully and drew a little Christmas scene for Sofia: the holy family, the shepherds and their sheep, the ox, and the ass. Then he added a hillside with San Salvatore in the background. He was quite pleased with the result. He folded the drawing and placed the medal inside it. Then he tucked it inside the leather cover of the missal.

“I regret that I shall not be able to come on Christmas Day,” Sofia said the next time she visited him. “It will be impossible. We go to Midnight Mass on the holy eve, and then we celebrate with neighbours for much of the night. Then the whole village is out and about during the next day. Much celebrating, although God knows we have little to celebrate at the moment. I will have to wait until all fall asleep on Christmas night, full of wine and food and happiness. I am sorry to leave you alone at such a special time, and I will come as soon as I can. I will bring you some of the wild boar ragu, although I do not think the pasta will taste as good when it is no longer hot. But I have brought you enough now to keep the hunger away.” She unfolded the cloth and he saw that she had brought him a big slice of polenta, some olive tapenade, a small piece of sheep’s cheese, and a dried apple. “These will keep,” she said. “And for now here is some soup.”