Free Between Enemies by Andrea Molesini Page B

knows…Ah, no!’ And the chalk made a full circle, describing a halo above his bald head. ‘But He knows.’ And pointing once more to the stuccoed ceiling, he confirmed: ‘Yes, He knows all right!’
    Even if this proof of the existence of a superior being had not been forged in the metal of incontrovertible logic, the children appreciated it, because whenever Don Lorenzo brought up thesubject of money it meant that the sermon was near the end, for our vicar did not let a day go by without telling us that ‘money all comes from the devil’s own coffers’. Except, of course, what came by way of God’s nest egg.
    The whish of the devil’s coat-tails and the clinking of his money were still with us when Atillio raised his hand. ‘Father,’ said he in scarcely more than a whisper, ‘you always say that the devil is more cunning than a witch…So why couldn’t he disguise himself as Don Lorenzo?’
    In three bounds the priest thrust his face almost nose to nose with the child, who hastily withdrew with a grimace. ‘What’s that you say, boy?’
    ‘That Don Lorenzo might also be…’ A great wave of laughter threatened to sweep through the church. But the priest lifted his head and the look in his eyes raised a bulwark and checked the wave. His face returned nose to nose with the child’s, his lips drew back and showed his teeth, yellow and crooked. When the blast of his breath struck the boy with the ready yawn, I realized that Atillio had hit the nail on the head: the priest’s breath came from the sulphurous depths of Gehenna.
    Back at the Villa all was a-bustle. Beside the gates a majestic motor car glittered in all its chrome-plated splendour. It was a Daimler, guarded by a soldier with rifle slung on one shoulder and uniform crisply pressed. With short, nervous steps he paced back and forth from one bumper to the other. I wanted to take a closer look at that marvel of machinery, but my aunt grasped my arm and held me back: ‘Have you lost your mind?’
    All the soldiers to a man had their capes buttoned tight, the buckles shining, their cartridge pouches aligned with unaccustomed symmetry and their boots might have come straight froma shop window. The machine guns, set up in line under the portico, were oiled and spotless, and if the evening light had been a little brighter the bayonets would have glittered like the chrome fittings of the Daimler. They all spoke in subdued tones, even the sergeants.
    ‘I’ll go and find Renato,’ I said in my aunt’s ear.
    ‘And I’ll find the captain.’
    I made a tour of the garden, playing with an Alsatian which was let off its chain every evening by a sergeant who couldn’t bear to hear it barking. I ran here and there to get the dog to follow me, whimpering with pleasure, and every so often it would try to knock me over by planting its huge black paws on my chest, then on my back. In this way, under the astonished eyes of non-commissioned officers and sentries, I got right through the camp, now reduced to half a dozen tents. Many of the troops had left during the afternoon to relieve a company of Schützen stationed at Pieve. I spotted the medical officer, a tall, lean fellow of about fifty, with impressive side-whiskers, sitting on a pile of wooden boxes and peeling an apple with a barber’s razor. Through the windows of the side chapel came the faint glimmer of lighted candles. I got rid of the dog by throwing a stick over the ditch that marked the northern edge of the garden, and hurried in.
    Loretta and Teresa were telling their rosaries and mangling words in Latin. Teresa gave me a cross look. Loretta pretended to be rapt in prayer, pulling her dark headscarf so far forward as to cover her cheekbones. I approached the cook.
    ‘This evening we got generals,’ she said.
    I gave her a questioning look: ‘Generals?’
    ‘Teresa says it and Teresa knows it, those landsknechts have no manners.’
    ‘Are they going to eat in the big dining room?’
    The