The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [228]
Behind Giovanetti, a squad of carabinieri dig in near the stone bridge that spans the river east of town. "Brigadiere!" one of his men says, nodding toward the crowd. "Your little admirer!"
Claudette Blum waves as she and her father work through the throng. Umberto blinks, taken aback. Mortified by his reaction, the girl’s fingers fly to her forehead. "A new hairstyle!" Umberto exclaims heartily, trying to recover. "How very becoming, Mademoiselle Blum!"
She turns away, blushing, only to confront Duno Brössler’s mocking leer. "Mmmmmmberto," he moans, eyes closed in dreamy devotion. Claudette snarls and Duno laughs, crossing the bridge and striding down the road after his family.
Umberto Giovanetti masks amusement with official courtesy. "Here are your passports, Monsieur Blum. You’ll need photos, but they’re complete, apart from your signatures."
"Passports?" Albert asks worriedly. "Not visas?"
"Naturally, a passport!" Umberto says, brows high. "Any good Fascist can see that you are a member of the Italian Aryan race." He glances toward Claudette. She is preoccupied by a fervent desire to perish from embarrassment, but he drops his voice anyway. "I regret to inform you, monsieur, that your many-times-great-grandmother cuckolded her unknowing husband. You are clearly the descendant of her Italian lover, and therefore eligible for citizenship!" Albert Blum laughs incredulously. Umberto remains straight-faced. "The Romans conquered a great deal of territory, monsieur. As my father used to say, everyone in Europe is a little bit Italian."
"Brigadiere, I don’t know how to thank you."
"It was nothing. A telephone call to a cousin. And La Guardia di Finanza—the border police? They’re unlikely to check passports under present circumstances. I only wish I had been able—"
"You did all you could, Brigadiere," Albert assures him, "but if you should hear of Paula—"
"Papa! How will Mama find us?" Claudette asks with sudden anxiety. "She won’t know where we’ve gone!"
The carabiniere holds up his hand. "That problem can be addressed when there’s a mountain range between you and the Wehrmacht, mademoiselle!"
Umberto Giovanetti has known this little family only a short while, but their fate has become important to him. Small and neat in his late forties, Signor Blum wears a fraying double-breasted suit with a once-fashionable tie and a dented homburg. His worn-out city shoes are buffed to a forlorn gloss. Add an umbrella, and he’d be dressed for a tram ride to an office in Antwerp, but the Hebrew does not look well. His daughter is young, and annoying, and she falls in love with someone new every second day. Even so, Umberto is tempted to tell this gangly girl to take care of her father.
"Permesso?" he asks instead. Clicking his heels, he lifts the girl’s hand, brings it toward his lips. "Mademoiselle, it has been a great pleasure to know you."
"But ... aren’t you leaving, too?"
Umberto glances at his compatriots busily wiring the bridge for demolition: a rear guard of volunteers who will do what they can to slow the Wehrmacht down. He meets Albert Blum’s eyes for a moment before smiling warmly at Claudette. "This is a charming town," he says lightly. "No doubt, some of us will remain here."
THE ROAD is level. The breeze is pleasant. The sun is shining The fretfulness of children and anxiety of parents yield to the novelty of a warm day in the countryside, but soon their pace slackens. Pregnant women and new mothers carrying infants perch on suitcases or lean against trees, resting in the shade. Old people and children quickly feel the strain. Alert to opportunity, French peasants