Free Hero on a Bicycle by Shirley Hughes

“J’attendrai,” he flopped down on the living-room sofa, feeling quite sick with relief.
    Hilaria finally left at about four o’clock. After that there was nothing for any of them to do except wait until dark. It was around nine when Constanza crept down to fetch Joe and David from the cellar and brought them out to join Paolo in the yard. They were wearing caps pulled down over their faces, and each carried a canvas bag slung over his shoulder like any Italian man returning late from work. They had already said a brief, grateful good-bye to Rosemary. Now the two men, Paolo, and Constanza stood there, shy and at a loss for words.
    “We’ll try to let you know somehow where we end up,” said Joe, looking at Constanza.
    “Send you a picture postcard,” added David.
    “Take care,” said Constanza. It seemed wholly inadequate, but it was the best she could manage. She put her arms around each of them in turn and hugged them. She was taken by surprise by the warmth with which Joe returned her embrace. She wondered why the fate of these two young men, whom she had known for less than twenty-four hours, suddenly meant so much to her. Why am I always saying good-bye? she thought sadly, reminded of her father’s long absence.
    Paolo was impatient to be off. Silently, and determined not to let on how nervous he was, he led the two men down the back drive, toward the road. Rosemary was standing alone in the kitchen, unable to bear watching them go.
    Their journey downhill toward the city was uneventful. The houses showed no sign of light. Very few people ventured out after dark now, even before the curfew, and those who had took little notice of them. But as they approached the Porta Romana, Paolo’s heart sank. A German military patrol was parked by the roadside, and four soldiers were stopping people at random. Paolo tried to pass by unnoticed, but one of the men, a corporal, motioned to them at gunpoint to stop.
    “Passes? Show your passes,” he said in broken Italian.
    Joe and David stood well back, heads down, as they fumbled in their jackets. The single carefully shaded light from the soldier’s flashlight threw their shadows out across the street. Paolo stepped forward, offering his own papers and rallying all his linguistic skills to speak to the man in German.
    “They’re from out of town,” he said, jerking his head at his two companions. “They’re from the North, near Brescia. Been working near here in a munitions factory. I’m local. I’m taking them into town to stay the night with a relative. Then they’re going to work their way back home if they can.”
    The corporal relaxed slightly at the sound of his own language.
    “You’re a bit young to be out at night,” he said, eyeing Paolo. “Make sure you’re back inside before the curfew begins.”
    “I’m OK. I know my way around. I’ve got my bicycle, and I’m going straight home after this.”
    The soldier glanced at Joe and David and motioned for them to show their passes, which he scrutinized under his flashlight. Then he told them to walk on.
    They did so in silence and did not relax until they were some way down the Via Romana into the city. Paolo could see the sweat on Joe’s face. They passed the Angelina Convent and crossed the deserted Piazza de’ Pitti, where the great looming shape of the Pitti Palace rose high above them, all its windows dark. As they approached the river, Paolo led the way into a side street to the right. He wanted to avoid crossing the Ponte Vecchio in case they ran into another checkpoint there. Instead, they took a roundabout route that came out onto the Lungarno Torrigiani, the road that bordered the river on the south side, and crossed safely to the north side over the Ponte alle Grazie. Then they plunged into the network of little streets near the Santa Croce.
    Paolo had studied the route. He knew these streets well from his night rides — knew every doorway and alley they could dodge into if they