Hero on a Bicycle Read Online Free PDF

watering without another word.
    That was easier than I expected, thought Paolo. But he felt uneasy. When his mother went indoors, he wandered around the garden, unable to settle into doing anything. He felt useless and wished, not for the first time, that Babbo were there to take responsibility for everything. He resented him for being so utterly absent. It wasn’t even as if he were a soldier serving on the Russian front or a prisoner of war. That would be something to brag about. And even prisoners managed to send letters or messages occasionally, to keep in touch somehow. Of course, Paolo and Constanza knew that Franco had defied Mussolini and the German occupation and that he was probably out there in the hills somewhere with the Partisans and that he was some kind of hero. But you couldn’t be proud of someone all the time, especially when you couldn’t talk about them to your friends. Nobody, not even Mamma, seemed to know where Babbo was, but even if she did, she wasn’t going to tell Paolo and Constanza. It made Paolo long for some kind of showdown, a huge argument or fight, anything to break down the wall of avoidance and silence. But he was not allowed even that. His mother’s loneliness and vulnerability ruled out any angry confrontations.
    He picked up a scythe and went to work off his pent-up feelings on the weeds and stinging nettles that grew in abundance all over what used to be the formal garden. It is almost a relief, he thought, that the war, the real fighting, is getting ever closer.
    Rosemary did not attend Mass again that evening. Instead, she roamed the house, plumping up cushions, sorting laundry, finding things to tidy up while keeping an anxious eye on the garden. Paolo seemed to be staying out there until long after dark. She caught a glimpse of him now and again, prowling aimlessly around.
    Supper that evening was leftovers from lunch and consisted only of rather stale bread, salad, and a little cheese. Food rationing was too tight now to allow for more than one main family meal a day. Constanza appeared briefly and then retreated back to her room. Paolo came in late and ate very little, and then he, too, went upstairs.
    At nine o’clock, Rosemary and Maria listened to the news on the old radio set in the kitchen. It was in Italian and so heavily censored by German-controlled broadcasting that it was very difficult to get any clear picture of what was actually happening. There was a lot of talk about “brave resistance to enemy advances” but nothing specific. The only source of information now was rumor, and that was mostly unreliable, too.
    At last, when the whole house was quiet, Rosemary went up to her room. She did not undress. Instead, she sat fully clothed by her window, looking out at the garden, waiting and listening. Just after midnight, she opened her bedroom door very quietly and slipped out onto the landing. Paolo’s and Constanza’s bedroom lights were out. She listened for a while at both their doors. There was no sound. She crept downstairs.
    In spite of the hot night, the shutters in the big living room that overlooked the garden were closed and the curtains tightly drawn. Total blackout was rigidly enforced, and there were heavy fines if any home showed the tiniest crack of light that might be spotted by enemy aircraft. She turned out all the lights, pulled back the curtains, undid the shutters, and opened the French doors. She stepped out onto the terrace.
    There was no moon. She hesitated for a moment, peering into the darkness, then descended the steps and crossed the expanse of rough, dried-up grass that had once been a lawn. Beyond it was a gate that opened onto a narrow path, densely overshadowed by a row of cypress trees. The cicadas were keeping up their incessant sound; otherwise all she could hear were her own footsteps.
    The path petered out into an unkempt grove of olive trees. They lurched at grotesque angles over a litter of casually dumped garden refuse and