Hero on a Bicycle Read Online Free

had he known it, Constanza was far from cool. She was tired after Paolo’s nocturnal sortie into Florence had kept her awake, but that was the least of her concerns at that moment. Since Babbo had disappeared, they had all been making a huge effort to act out a charade of normality, stepping carefully around one another. She herself had become increasingly good at pretending not to mind the family’s isolation, sitting up in her room, playing her records. Sunday Mass often reminded her that most of the girls she had known at school were quietly avoiding her these days or else had moved away. No one had ever asked her point-blank where her father was. But they all knew that her mother was English and therefore one of the enemy — even though she had been an exemplary Italian wife and mother and had lived hospitably among them for so many years.
    Hilaria Albertini was the only one among her friends who still wanted to see her. Although their families were so opposed politically, it was good to have someone her own age drop in for a chat from time to time and swap fashion magazines. Constanza knew very well that Hilaria’s fluffy blond hair, wide brown eyes, and ready laugh concealed a core of tough self-interest, but she could be very good company and always knew all the latest gossip. Hilaria made Constanza feel the loss of her other friends less deeply. Moreover, Constanza knew it was important to keep up at least a superficially good relationship with the few neighbors left still willing to befriend the family. Constanza was only too aware of the precarious circumstances under which they were living — something that Paolo seemed to blithely disregard.
    The Crivellis’ house was a spacious villa with a sweep of gravel driveway, shuttered windows under wide overhanging eaves, and a large terrace that ran the whole length of the house, overlooking the garden. In the days before the war, there had been tennis parties, cocktails on the terrace, and elaborate dinners with course after course that both Constanza and Paolo had seen being prepared in the kitchen by the cook and other servants. There had been veal chops, game shot by their father, rich sauces, profusions of vegetables, and wonderful desserts like the one — they had already forgotten the name of it — with hot, crisp meringue on the outside and ice cream spilling out from within. It made them ache with hunger just to think of it.
    Paolo had been too young then to join the grown-ups, and even Constanza had had to content herself with being presented in the drawing room for a brief time before dinner, her hair carefully parted on one side and held in place with those hair clips she hated. They were teenagers now and so old enough to attend, only there were no more parties, the garden was neglected, and hardly anyone came to visit them, except Hilaria and the occasional priest.
    The little church where they attended Mass was very near to their house. Set among cypress trees, it had once been a private chapel and part of the Crivelli estate. Now it was used as the local church for people from the village and surrounding farms. The bell was already tolling when they joined the usual sparse group gathered outside. They were mostly local farmers and their families, Maria’s brother and his wife among them, and, of course, the Albertinis, who were out in force: Hilaria, her parents, and her older brother, Aldo, all dressed to the nines, as usual. There were also three German army officers, who were part of the occupying army stationed in Florence. They were Catholics and had been exempted from Sunday-morning parade at their local barracks to attend Mass. They were very smart-looking in their uniforms, with their belts and highly polished revolver holsters. There was the tall, thin one who stood awkwardly on long, storklike legs, and another, older man, already running to fat, who sported a small toothbrush mustache in imitation of his beloved leader, Adolf Hitler.