Free Fire in the Hills by Donna Jo Napoli Page A

dishonorable thing.

14
    R INA LOOKED AT TERESA. “Stay at least a few more days.”
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    Teresa helped serve breakfast. “There’s work to do.”
    â€œFor my sake,” said Rina. And she put her hands on a chair back and leaned forward and cried. She had been crying on and off since Sunday night. It was now Tuesday morning. Angelo and Emilio had left for school. They didn’t want to go, but Rina said they had to. One day home was enough. It would be better for them to go back to their routine. For all of them. They all had to keep moving.
    Roberto and Manfreddo were getting ready for a day of ploughing. It hadn’t rained on Monday. That meant the earth was soft, but no longer muddy. The best conditions for ploughing. They would probably finish today, if they could just manage to keep their minds on the job. If they didn’t let sorrow immobilize them.
    Teresa wore her hair in two tight braids. One had fallen over her shoulder when she put the bowl of hot milk in front of Roberto. Now she lifted the tips of both braids and tied them over the top of her head. “Manfreddo, are there any clothes Angelo has outgrown in this house?”
    â€œWhat? Sure. Mamma saves everything.”
    â€œAll right, then.” Teresa kissed Rina on the cheek. “One more day. But only if you let me help in the field.”
    Manfreddo took the long-bladed hoe and went to the field on the slope of the hill. And, so, Roberto found himself beside Teresa, pushing and pulling the oxen. With a hat covering her tied braids, she seemed like one of the brothers. And she worked like one, too. Her strength surprised him. Roberto realized he didn’t know anything about her. She had hardly talked since she got here. “Did you grow up on a farm?” he asked.
    â€œYou don’t want to know.”
    â€œYes, I do.”
    â€œThe less you know, the less they can get out of you if they torture you.”
    Who would come to this farm to torture him? Torture seemed a world away from this valley. And there was something missing from Teresa’s argument. “What would it matter if I knew about how you grew up?”
    â€œOne bit of information here, another there, a third over there—you put them together and you figure out someone’s family.” Teresa wiped dirt and sweat from her face and looked at Roberto with disgust. “You really don’t know squat about this war, do you? If the Germans had found out anything about Gufo’s family, they’d have come and burned down the farmhouse. Rina and Manfreddo and Angelo and Emilio—they’d all be dead now. This is true.”
    Roberto did too know things about this war. More than he wished he knew. But there was no point in arguing. “Gufo?” he said, instead. Who was Gufo? It was such a strange name—it meant “owl.”
    â€œIvano. Many of the partigiani have a nome di guerra —a war name. The name of an animal, or maybe of a legendary hero, like Orlando, or maybe a natural phenomenon like Terremoto—‘earthquake.’ It’s what you go by, to keep everyone safe.”
    â€œSafe? Who’s safe in the middle of war?” Roberto said with challenge in his voice.
    Teresa lugged at an ox. “We keep one another’s spirits safe. As for the body . . . well, it’s going to die sooner or later anyway. But we do what we can to protect it. We don’t tell what doesn’t need to be told.”
    â€œIvano told you his real name.”
    â€œGufo knew I’d die rather than give him up.”
    And it dawned on Roberto. Of course. “Are you Volpe Rossa—the red fox in his letter?”
    â€œNo one outside the partigiani knows our war names.” They reached the end of the row. Roberto turned the oxen around, to start the last row of the field. “How do you keep one another’s spirits safe?”
    Teresa rubbed her throat. Then she opened her