We Were Soldiers

64. La Casa di Rosa

The next time Danny opened his eyes, it was almost dark. A creak of the floorboards outside the open bedroom door roused him fully, and a kid appeared in a pool of warm yellow light, courtesy of the oil lamp he carried in his hands. The boy stepped into the room, his movements hesitant and furtive as he crept crossed the floor and set the lamp down on the bedside table.

"Hello," said Danny.

The boy glanced up at him, then quickly looked away, as if afraid to be seen anywhere near an American soldier. Danny supposed he couldn't blame him; American troops had helped to turn his country into a war zone. But that didn't mean a kid had to be afraid of them.

"What's your name?" he asked, as the boy reached up and pulled the curtains closed across the window. "You don't need to be afraid, I'm not gonna hurt you."

The boy's head turned sharply to regard Danny through the same brown eyes that his mother and sister possessed. A look of guilt crossed his face, and his eyes darted towards the door as if calculating how long it would take him to escape.

"My name's Danny," he continued.

This time, the boy shrank back towards the door, slipping out quietly in the shadows. Huh. Must be shy. The kid probably wasn't used to seeing strangers in his house. A moment after the boy left, Rosa appeared with a tray of something that smelled delicious.

"Was that your son?" Danny asked her.

"Yes. That was Paolo."

"I think I might'a made him nervous."

"Paolo is a sensitive boy, easily overwhelmed by change. I think he was not expecting you to survive your injury."

"Sorry to disappoint him."

"You did not." She put the tray of food down and helped him sit up a little higher, propping a couple of pillows behind his back to support his weight. Her care reminded him of the nurses, back at camp, especially Audrey. She was kinder than the other nurses, less rough, especially to Gusty's friends.

He surprised himself with a pang of something in his stomach—something other than hunger. He thought it might be regret, or sadness, or home sickness. Right now, alone in a strange place, he missed Gusty, and Audrey, and Biggs, and all the others back at camp, even Hodge! He missed them in a way that he supposed one missed their absent friends. This, like his confusing and worrisome feelings about Barnes, was all very new.

"I didn't want to wake you earlier," Rosa continued, "you seemed fast asleep, so I kept this warm for you."

She sat on the edge of his bed and reached for the spoon. He flung out a hand to stop her.

"Please, Rosa, I can feed myself." He'd never hear the end of it, when he got back to camp, if the guys learnt he'd been spoon-fed by somebody old enough to be his mother.

"Very well."

She gave him the spoon, and set the tray across his lap. He very quickly realised he probably should have let Rosa feed him. All his life he'd used his right hand for everything, and had taken it very much for granted. Now, he was forced to use his left hand, and even the simple act of spooning stew to his mouth was more difficult than he ever would have imagined. Why couldn't the damn Nazis have shot him in his left shoulder?

"This is very good," he said, when he'd managed to get the first half a bowl mostly in his mouth. "What's in it?"

"Kid."

He halted with the full spoon halfway between his mouth and the bowl. His stomach did some pretty unpleasant things. Seeing his confusion, Rosa elaborated.

"As in, the meat of a young goat. And vegetables."

"Oh. I never knew a young goat was called a kid."

"There are no goats, in America?"

"Not in New York. At least, none that I know of." They sat in silence for a moment, and all sorts of questions ran through Danny's mind. Intel, his drill sergeants back at boot camp had told him, is essential to any campaign. Without intel, you were shootin' blind.

But despite having slept a whole lot recently, Danny was very, very tired. Even now he was fighting against exhaustion just to stay awake and keep eatin' stew. Was that what infection did to you? Did it drain your body of all its strength, so you could do nothing but lie there, and sleep, and let other people feed you and clothe you?

Intel could wait until tomorrow. And Rosa seemed to know that he was in no condition to be up and moving around; she made no effort to fetch his clothes, and when he'd finished all the stew he could manage—three quarters of a bowl—she took it from him and set it aside, so he didn't have to reach out.

"Thank you, it was delicious," he said. Better than anything the army had ever served him.

"You're welcome. You should get some sleep. Your body will mend itself faster, the more you rest it."

"I'm not tired," he lied.

"You will be, very soon. The doctor left an antibiotic and a sleeping powder for you. I put them into your stew."

"Oh." That explained why he felt like he had lead weights attached to his eyelids. Why all he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep for another week. He probably ought to have been worried that he'd just been drugged, but he was too tired to care. Besides, he'd spent the past few days mostly unconscious, and nothing bad had happened to him. Maybe this was the good kind of drugging, if there ever was such a thing.

Finally too exhausted to stay awake, he closed his eyes and was so soundly asleep that he didn't hear the creak of the floor as Rosa left.

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A night of real sleep did wonders for Danny. The next morning, he still felt physically tired, he still ached, but his outlook was much brighter, his mind refreshed by its long hours of silence. The sun shone warmly through the thin curtains over the window despite the turning of the season, and he knew that this was the day he would be back on his feet.

His bladder was very insistent about that.

Decorum kept him from springing out of bed and heading out of the bedroom to explore the house. So far, Rosa seemed to be the only one in the family who spoke any English, and he didn't think the sight of him appearing at random, shirtless and wearing a pair of trousers three sizes too big for him, would go down very well.

Rosa appeared not long after he woke, as if sensing his desire to be up and around. She opened the curtains fully, then lay her hand on his forehead to check his temperature.

"Can I get out of bed now?" he asked. "I'd really like to use your bathroom."

"I'm afraid you'll find us rather primitive, compared to your New York," she said. "We have an outhouse."

"Hey, an outhouse is a step up from the pits an army on the move uses."

"Very well. I'll show you to the outhouse, and then perhaps you'd like some breakfast?"

"I would love some breakfast," he assured her. "And thank you, again. I really don't want to be a burden."

"Why do you think you are a burden?"

"Well, because you've had to take care of me, and feed me, and clothe me—literally. I'm sorry if I'm taking up your time."

"I believe we have a duty to care for all who are sick or injured," she said.

"Even strangers? I mean, you don't know anything about me. For all you know, I might be some kinda nutjob"

"If you prove troublesome, I can simply hand you over to the German troops who come by once in a while to pretend that we are all friends and that everything is going well."

She said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that he didn't doubt for even a moment that she wouldn't hesitate to do it if he did indeed prove troublesome.

"I promise I won't be troublesome," he assured her, and hoped he sounded sincere.

She gave a tiny nod, a small measure of approval in her brown eyes. "I'm glad we understand each other. Now, let us see about getting you to the outhouse, hmm?"

Rosa gave him a clean shirt which, like the pants, was three sizes too big for him, then helped him out of bed. It was too painful to move his right arm, so he left the shirt sleeve loose over it. He managed to stand, though it made him light-headed to do so, and she must have thought he looked unsteady, because she hovered by his side like an overly cautious hummingbird as he took his first steps.

Though, perhaps she was more hawk than hummingbird.

Walking past the vanity unit, the blur of motion caught his eye. On shaky legs, he stepped towards it, and when he looked into the mirror, a stranger looked back.

Familiar blue eyes regarded him from a face he barely recognised. His black hair was dishevelled above skin that was sallow and clammy, and dark purple crescents beneath his eyes made his sockets look deep and hollow. His cheeks were gaunt, and covered by rough, dark stubble which gave him an air of vagrancy. Below the open-neck shirt, his collarbone was painfully visible, and he could make out the shape of his upper ribs below it. The shirt hung off him not only because the man it belonged to was larger, but because Danny had withered whilst he'd been in that bed. No wonder Rosa hovered near.

"Exactly how sick was I?" he asked.

"We did not expect you to survive. You are very lucky. Had you not been strong and healthy before you were shot, you would probably have died."

I look like I still might.

If he went back to camp now, would anybody even recognise him? Of course, that was a stupid question to ask, in his present condition. He had no idea where he was, had no idea whether the camp was still there, and probably couldn't even make it ten yards without help, much less ten miles.

"Come," said Rosa, taking his arm and leading him towards the door. "It does not do to dwell on what has happened. It is better to look to the future. Your recovery starts today."

He let himself be guided down the stairs, and they stepped out into a homely kitchen painted in warm terracotta and cream. The first thing he could smell was bread baking in the oven, and the scent of drying herbs hanging upside down from the rafters hit him straight after. It was a heady, exotic smell which immediately made him hungry.

The view from the kitchen door was of small meadows and craggy mountains, a patchwork of rolling pastures bordered by conical evergreens and gold-hued deciduous forests. Though the sun was shining, Danny felt a chill in the air when Rosa opened the door. Winter was definitely lurking around the corner.

"It is a short walk to the outhouse," she said, and offered her arm.

Danny took it. Walking this far had tired him, and he didn't want to be so exhausted that he collapsed in the outhouse. Might as well try to cling to whatever was left of his dignity. He just hoped she wasn't planning on propping him up while he used the damn thing.

Rosa's house was built on the slope of a rolling hill that was probably a little too small to be called a mountain, in the lee of a forest of green and gold trees. There was another building fifty metres away, almost as wide and as long as the house, but with only a ground floor—a barn, he guessed. A wooden fence ran around the outside, incorporating the building into its structure. It reminded Danny of the fences around his Uncle Pete's ranch, only, this fence wasn't so tall or sturdy. Definitely not built to contain horses.

"You keep animals?" he asked, nodding to the barn.

Rosa nodded, a smile playing across her lips. "Goats, for their milk. I make cheese; artisan cheese. Before the war, my cheeses sold far and wide, and were renowned for their quality." The smile faded. "Now, times are leaner. It is not so easy to sell far away. Now, I mostly sell in the nearby towns and villages. War has tightened purses everywhere. Produce which once brought in many lire, now bring in few. These days, my goats are as valuable for their meat as their milk. Times are leaner." She took a deep breath, and he felt her steel herself, her back straightening as they walked. "But we will persevere. Things may be bad now, but not quite as bad as during the Depression. At one point I was down to three goats, and had barely enough to feed my children."

Danny tried not to dwell on the image of Rosa slaughtering her goats just to feed her hungry kids. He remembered the Great Depression, though his family hadn't been too hard done by. Tim had already been in the Navy by that point, and sent home a portion of his pay each month. Their father's pension was fairly generous, too, after so many years of service. Danny was lucky; he was the youngest son. Owen got Tim's hand-me-downs, and then they got handed down to Connor. By the time they reached Danny, they were so threadbare and stained that not even his parents would deign to let him be seen wearing them. Most of his clothes were new, or—during the Depression—from the thrift store. But even thrift-store clothes were better than third-generation hand-me-downs.

By the time they reached the small, stained-wood outhouse, Danny had put aside all thoughts of the Depression and was silently willing his bladder to hold on for just one more minute. Thankfully, Rosa decided to stay outside. As soon as Danny stepped into the gloomy interior, he yanked down the too-large pants and relieved himself of a surprising amount of water, to say he'd been asleep for most of the past week. The burning, need-to-pee discomfort fled swiftly, and before stepping back out into the world, he closed his eyes to shield his vision from the glare of daylight.

He'd hoped Rosa might have moved a short distance away, but she was right there, hovering like that damn humming-hawk again, poised to grab him at the slightest wobble. Danny waved her away, and took a couple of steps forward to look more closely at the cluster of houses a short way down the valley. They were all grey stone and dazzling white plaster. Terracotta roof tiles featured heavily, as did balconies around the upper windows. It seemed a cheery, exotic place; certainly much nicer than Aureille, where he and Barnes had left Matilda.

"That's your village?" he asked.

"Yes. Castello Lavazzo."

"You said the Nazis sometimes come here..?"

She nodded, a sour expression pulling at her lips. "For entertainment, mostly."

"How often."

"It depends on how their air campaigns are doing. It is mainly pilots we see here. When they are grounded due to weather, we see them every few days. When they have missions to fly; less so. Sometimes they come to the house, and purchase my cheeses for far less than they are worth."

"Do you have a map I could look at?"

"No." She scoffed. "Nobody keeps maps, these days. The last man who had one was accused of being Resistenza, and of planning attacks on Nazi facilities. He was taken away, and we never saw him again."

Little chance of him figuring his way back to camp, then. He'd had a map for the mission to recover the supplies, but had no idea where it was now. Probably still lying where he'd been shot. But maybe he didn't need a map. There were other ways of getting back.

"Are there any members of the Resistance here? People who'd know where enemy and allied camps are located?"

"Even if I knew, I would not tell you. Perhaps you are a German spy, come to uncover any hint of resistance." Her brown eyes issued him a challenging glare. "Perhaps you should tell me a little of your life, so that I know you are not a German undercover operative."

"Or maybe you're a German sympathiser trying to find out as much as you can about me before handing me over to your Gestapo buddies," he countered. "After all, I was shot and nearly dead, and yet you managed to find and save me."

"Oh? This from a man who claims he is so unimportant that his own people would not be looking for him? If I was a German sympathiser looking for intelligence, you would be a poor catch, I think."

He had to admit, she had a point. "Then maybe we should try for a little trust," he suggested. "I'll believe that you're not a German sympathiser, if you'll believe I'm not a Kraut spy."

"I think I can agree to that." She offered her hand, and he shook it. He wasn't at all surprised to find she had a very firm grip.

"Are we anywhere near Como? Our forces took it a couple of weeks ago; I could find a way back to my camp from there."

"Como?" She cocked her head. "I have never been there. Where is it near?"

"Not far from Milan."

"Then it is very far away. I am sorry, Daniel."

He winced. "Danny, please. Nobody but my folks calls me Daniel."

"Very well."

A new idea struck. "How far is it to the Swiss border?"

Rosa sighed and shook her head. "Far enough for a healthy man in the middle of summer. For a man in your condition, and with us on winter's doorstep, it would be suicide. Though, I admire your dedication to return to the fight."

"I have promises to keep." And socks to return.

"It is good to know you are a man of your word, then," she said, apparently unfamiliar with Robert Frost. "Now, I suggest we return to the house so that you can sit down and eat something. You look terrible."

"Gee, thanks." But food did sound like a good idea, so when she offered her arm again, he accepted. "Your English is very good," he said. Far better than Roberto's had been. In fact, he was surprised anyone this far out in the sticks spoke any English at all.

"Thank you. When I was a girl, I had a pen-pal in England. You pick up languages more easily, as a child."

He nodded. That was how he'd learnt French. Listening to and talking to Grandpa. He'd loved speaking French; it was like their own private language. His brothers had learnt it too, of course, but Grandpa always favoured Danny. He was the youngest, and le moins Irlandais, as Grandpa would say. The least Irish.

When they reached the house, Rosa led him in through the kitchen door and seated him at the varnished wood dining table. He sank gratefully into the chair, and wondered how long it would be before he could do anything as exciting as a jumping jack. If he attempted now, he'd probably kill himself. Or maybe Rosa would kill him, first.

"You are from New York?" she asked, as she busied herself at the kitchen worktop.

"Born and raised."

"What is it like?"

"Oh… big, noisy, crowded." He gave a vague wave of his hand. How could you describe New York to someone who'd never been there?

"You make it sound unpleasant."

"It's home. I miss it," he admitted. "Nobody's ever tried to shoot at me, in New York. You certainly don't walk down the street and run head first into Nazis."

"Is it much like London?"

"I don't know; I've never been to London. Have you?"

She nodded. "When I was younger. I visited the pen-pal I told you of. Spent time in her home, with her family. We enjoyed visiting the sights together. For me, it was an entirely new world. So many people, dressed so smartly, talking in smart ways. I felt very small."

"Well, I hope to see London, someday," he said. "Then I'll be able to tell you whether it compares to New York."

"Have you family, back home?"

"Sure. Three brothers, though they're all away fighting in the war. An uncle and a cousin, out in Wyoming. My folks are in New York." And there wasn't a chance he was stepping foot inside their home ever again. Even if it meant being alone, even if it meant never speaking to any of them for the rest of his life. He would rather be alone than go back. When he realised he was scowling, he tried to smooth his brows and asked, "What about you? You live here alone with your kids?"

Before answering, she brought over a small plate on which she'd prepared a thick slice of warm bread smothered with butter and a layer of pale, cream-coloured cheese. Accompanying it was a earthenware cup of hot milk, straight from the pot on the stove. Danny didn't need to be told to eat; his body insisted. After so long without solid food, he could only take small mouthfuls, but he managed to finish the whole plate while Rosa told him about her family.

"This is my husband's house; it belonged to his mother. She died two years ago, and it is her bedroom in which you have lain recovering. My husband works hard in the village; he is a blacksmith, one of two who own the only forge for many miles. He spends his days working metal and training his apprentice. Adalina tends the goats; she is learning my trade. Paolo attends school; he studies mathematics most of all. His favourite subject."

"Hey, I like math, too. It's what I did before signing up. Accounting."

Rosa favoured him with a genuine smile. "Then perhaps Paolo can pester you to help with his homework. I tire of him asking questions I can't answer."

"I'd love to help, if you don't mind translating. But, if this is your husband's house, what about your own parents, and any other family?"

"I have none, that I know of. I know only what I was told by the overseer of the orphanage where I was raised; that my mother died in childbirth, and my father went off to seek his death in the Boxer Rebellion. Not even my family name was passed over when I was left in the orphanage's care."

"Was it hard, growing up without a family?" He'd often wondered how much more pleasant his own childhood might have been, if he'd been raised in an orphanage. On particularly dark days, he'd even considered making his way to one and claiming to be an orphan. Time and time again again he'd practised his grovelling 'please take me in,' speech. Never actually had the guts to go through with it; his father would'a killed him, if he caught him.

"Sometimes, yes." Her lips twisted into a sad smile, her gaze losing focus as her mind went back in time. "When you are an orphan, you have nothing, not even a single lira to your name. I was lucky; the church where I grew up ran a program to support orphans. It was they who helped me find a pen-pal, and secured me passage when her family invited me to visit them. And when I was there, her parents were good to me. When I became a young woman, and expressed an interest in learning culinary skills, my friend's father secured training for me in England. I worked as a domestic servant whilst I trained, and saved up enough money to return to Italy and go to school in Rome. That is where I met my husband, whilst he was on a business trip with the man he was at the time apprenticed to."

"I wish I'd had a pen-pal when I was a kid," he mused, as he downed the last of the odd-tasting milk. Goats' milk, he suspected. "Is that why you're teaching your daughter your trade? So that she has a skill in case the worst should happen to you and your husband?"

She gave a quiet grunt. "You are astute. And yes; I wish Adalina to be able to stand on her own two feet. Many young women wish only to find nice husbands, but a woman with skills can often find a better husband than one without… if her heart allows it."

"Sounds like there's a story behind that sentiment," he grinned.

The glare she gave him was definitely on the frosty side. "If your stomach will allow it, I will give you a small sweet pastry. Then you will go back to bed and sleep. I can see this all talking and eating and walking has tired you out."

"I'm not tired at all," he said, hiding a genuine yawn—a real, deep, eye-watering yawn—behind his hand. "But since I am a guest in your house, I will of course defer to your wisdom," he acquiesced, which he thought was rather good of him.

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"…and then Davies took out a concussion grenade, pulled the pin, and threw it as far across the lake as he could manage. I thought the blast would be heard for miles around; had visions of the Krauts appearing and catching us with our pants down as we picked stunned fish out of the lake."

"Why would you take your pants off for that?" Rosa asked, handing him another onion to peel.

Danny waved the paring knife dismissively in the air. "It's just an expression."

"This 'Davies' of yours sounds very resourceful."

He nodded in mute agreement. After several hours of sleep, Rosa had declared him fit enough to make himself useful. She was preparing dinner—something she called gnocchi, served with vegetables—and had given Danny the job of chief onion peeler. Not an easy task, with his right arm out of play. So far, he'd peeled a grand total of one onion.

The back door flew open, and two people practically toppled inside, their chattering voices falling silent when they saw Danny at the kitchen table. He waved the knife at Rosa's son and daughter, then realised he was probably an idiot for waving a knife at two kids.

"Non stare lì a bocca aperta; chiudere la porta prima che il resto del mondo che si segue in!" Rosa yammered at them. The girl closed the kitchen door behind her, and they both took another step forward. Through wide brown eyes they watched him warily, as Mrs. O'Malley's cat had watched him from behind the window of her home, when he'd been a kid.

"Uh, hi," he offered. "Mi chiamo Danny."

"You speak Italian?" Rosa asked, her face etched with the first inkling of surprise he'd ever seen from her.

"Oh, sure. All two words of it. I had a book, briefly. Conversational Italian for the Casual Holidaymaker, or something like that." She stared at him blankly. "My superiors thought I'd make a good translator. I told them it was stupid."

Rosa issued a command to her offspring. The girl rolled her eyes, grabbed a wooden bucket, and disappeared back outside. The boy darted towards the stairs and ran up them two at a time, a workbook clasped firmly against his chest.

"You run a tight ship," he observed.

"Ship?"

"It's just an ex—"

"An expression," she nodded. "Americans seem to have many expressions for saying simple things."

"Just a part of our charm." He tried for a disarming smile. Suspected it didn't work when she merely snorted and returned to dicing several huge tomatoes.

A blur of movement caught Danny's eye from the window. He watched as Adalina took the bucket to a nearby well and began hauling water up. The Danny Wells of six months ago wouldn't have hesitated in dashing outside to offer his assistance carrying the heavy bucket back. The Danny Wells of right now knew he couldn't afford to do anything that might make him seem troublesome, lest Rosa decide to turn him over to the Nazis after all. Besides, he only had the use of his left hand, and he couldn't even manage to peel a damn onion. Perhaps heavy lifting could come later.

Much later.

When she returned to the kitchen, the girl poured some of the water into a large pan, and lifted it on top of the stove. Then, with a quick smile for Danny, she disappeared up the stairs, no doubt to change her dusty clothes and wash before dinner.

Eventually, Rosa took pity on him, and took the onion from him. Instead, she made him stir the pan of gnocchi which was heating slowly in the water. The vegetables were added to a second large pan, and not long after that, the event that Danny had been dreading occurred without warning; Rosa's husband came home.

The man was a couple of inches taller than Danny, and broad across his shoulders and upper back. He came in smelling of sweat, his skin dirty and soot-stained from those long hours smithing, no doubt. His black hair was shaggy and as sweaty as his shirt, and he didn't bother hiding his scowl when his eyes fell on Danny stirring the pan. Inside, Danny felt his stomach shrivel. The curse strikes again.

Fathers hated him. His own father, other fathers on the street, the fathers of girls he'd stepped out with… it was as if he had some sort of father-angering device inside him that he just couldn't switch off. No matter how nice, and unassuming, and sensible he'd tried to be, they were determined to see the worst in him. He couldn't remember a single dame he'd dated whose father could tolerate him, much less openly approved of him. He still couldn't figure out whether it was his problem, or theirs.

"Danny, this is my husband, Matteo," Rosa said. Then, glaring at her husband, "Matteo, Danny si sente molto meglio oggi. Dire ciao a lui, e di essere piacevole."

Rosa's husband ran his eyes over Danny, gave a wordless grunt, then disappeared up the stairs. Perhaps that was how things were done in Italy. Perhaps there was no formal introduction, no hand-shaking, no pleasantries. Just grunting.

"Tsk! Look at that," Rosa sighed, throwing her hands into the air as she stared at something on the floor behind the door. It turned out to be dirt that her husband had tracked into the house on his boots. "Every day, I tell him, take your boots off at the back door! Every day, he forgets."

"You have a broom or something?" Danny asked. "Want me to sweep it out?"

She clucked her tongue. "No, I will make Matteo do it. If I make him do it enough, he might even remember one day."

The mental image of the big man being nagged into sweeping up by his wife played out across Danny's mind, and it somehow ended with it being the fault of Danny himself. He wasn't sure how it was his fault, but he could feel the disapproval radiating from the man even before he'd been nagged in front of a stranger.

"C'mon, a little sweeping is the least I can do after what you've done for me," he assured her. And, before she could further object, he grabbed the broom he spotted behind the door and did his best one-handed attempt at sweeping.

He heard the patter of feet on the stairs, then a girlish laugh. When he turned his head, he noticed Adalina standing at the bottom of the stairs, pointing and laughing as she sang something in Italian at her mother.

"She wonders why you are doing a woman's job," Rosa translated, not softening the blow in the slightest.

"Because a woman's soft hands are wasted on such menial work," he replied with a smile for the young woman. Then, he mentally kicked himself. You shouldn't flirt with dames when you possibly maybe might have feelings for a guy, idiot. That's just stupid.

When Rosa translated his words back, Adalina merely laughed, and brushed past him to take plates from a cupboard, which she set out on the table. Then, everything happened at once. Rosa shouted up the stairs. Heavy footsteps came thudding from above; Rosa's husband had changed his shirt, but he still smelt like Danny and his fellow soldiers after two days of solid marching. The big man took a seat at the table and waited.

A second, softer pair of footsteps coming down the stairs materialised into Paolo. Head tucked down, he slipped quickly from the staircase to the table, and went from furtively standing to furtively sitting in one fluid motion. Adalina placed a pitcher of water in the centre of the table, Rosa drained the gnocchi and the vegetables, and suddenly everybody was seated and Danny was left holding the broom.

"Hurry up, Danny, the food is going cold," Rosa said.

He'd done his best with the dirt, so he shoved the broom back behind the door and took one of the two free seats at the table. He purposely chose the one that put him next to Rosa. She seemed like the most effective body-guard if her giant of a husband started liking him even less.

He quickly learnt that Italians did not stand on formality. There was no Grace said before the meal started. There was no passing the choicest morsels to the man of the house, and waiting for his permission before picking up a fork. In fact, there were barely forks. Everybody grabbed whatever they wanted, spooning as much of the gnocchi and vegetables on their plates as they felt like taking. They talked as they ate, talking over and under and around each other, punctuating their songs with requests of pass this and pass that which Danny was beginning to get his head around.

Rosa and Adalina chatted freely in Italian. Matteo offered grunts or short comments when he wasn't busy chewing the rather doughy gnocchi. Rosa managed to coax a few quiet answers out of Paolo, but the boy's gaze seemed permanently fixed on his plate. And, for the most part, Danny tried to sit there and eat his food as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. Just another part of the furniture. And if he was quiet enough, they might forget he was even there. Nobody might suggest solving their American problem by handing him over to the Nazis.

His good luck didn't hold out forever. Fifteen minutes into the meal, at which point it had ceased to be a free-for-all frenzy and had settled into a more sedate, leisurely culinary stroll, the conversation turned to him. He didn't understand what was being said, but he could tell the conversation was about him because of Matteo's occasional gestures, and the slowly rising volume of Rosa's voice. Adalina fell silent and became as focused on her plate on Paolo. It was almost like being back home, except his mom never argued back to his dad.

The thoughts of home, along with the heat in the voices arguing across the table, made him feel itchy underneath his skin. His stomach writhed unpleasantly, until finally he could take it no more. He put down his fork, and that small act drew four pairs of eyes to his face.

"Please don't argue over me," he said. "I don't want to cause you any trouble. After dinner, I'll leave. Try and make my way back to my camp."

"You are not well enough to leave," Rosa scowled. "A German patrol would pick you up before you reach the next town."

"That's better than causing problems for you," he assured her. "You've already done so much for me. I'm not gonna be that guy who overstays his welcome."

More arguing ensued. This time, Adalina chimed in, her voice as annoyed as her mother's as she gesticulated and yelled at her father. Paolo looked just about ready to burst into tears.

"Io non lo voglio in casa mia!" Matteo roared, slamming his fork down onto the table with enough force to make the whole thing shake. A little water slopped over a couple of the glasses.

Rosa was not to be out-done. She slammed her glass down so hard that half of its contents flew up into the air. "Bene! La casa è tua. Ma il fienile è mio, e ho scelto che dorme in esso."

Matteo stood, his chair legs scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. Danny managed to stop himself from flinching, but couldn't help but see in his mind's eye the huge fist reach out to grab him and toss him bodily out of the house. "Ho intenzione di lavarsi prima di dormire." He walked around the table, and out of the front door, slamming it closed behind him. Everybody else at the table carried on eating as if this was an everyday occurrence.

"Um, what was that?" Danny asked at last. What little appetite he'd possessed was now gone.

Rosa gave him a smile. "My husband does not want you in his house. I told him he can allow whomever he wants in his house, but the barn is mine."

"Oh. Okay." Sleeping in a barn. It ought to be warm enough, at least for the moment. Certainly warmer than a trench, which was where he'd probably be right now if he was back at camp. "I don't mind sharing with the goats."

"You won't be sleeping in the barn, Danny," she scoffed. "If Matteo can't have you gone entirely, he wants you where he can keep an eye on you. Who knows what you might get up to in the barn? But in here, under his nose? He can watch you like a hawk."

"I see." The barn was actually sounding like the better option. At least if Matteo crept into the barn with hostile intentions, the goats might warn him. Didn't they say that animals could sense danger?

She gave him a small pat on the arm. It didn't feel particularly comforting.

"It will be fine. You'll see."