The Italian Girl's Secret: An absolutely gripping and emotional WW2 historical fiction novel by Natalie Meg Evans

Author:Natalie Meg Evans [Evans, Natalie Meg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781838886066
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2021-09-09T16:00:00+00:00

19

In a series of splintering cracks, the kitchen door gave way. Carmela got up slowly. The gate had rammed her knee but pain took second place to horror. Shouts echoed along Vicoletto del Bosco as well as from the Palazzo. They were surrounded.

Sebastiano’s contempt echoed through her. Running after the Germans was as dangerous as it was futile. For all that, she limped to the kitchen door and with her hands raised, stepped over the threshold.

A single German soldier was in the room, staring into a corner.

Staring at Renzo.

Don’t bark, don’t show your teeth, darling boy. There was no sign of Tomaso. Had the soldiers dragged him upstairs? Booted feet rampaged overhead along with sounds of doors being kicked open. Pray to God, her father had got out. He’d been well positioned to do so. But Sebastiano was hemmed into an attic from which there was no escape… could she warn him? Still with her hands up, she took a sideways step. The soldier was pointing his machine gun at the dog. Renzo, with his head on his paws, was gazing upwards with a resignation agonising to see. She couldn’t help herself. ‘Don’t, please don’t.’ She spoke German, and when the soldier swivelled round, his gun jabbing the air, he replied in the same.

‘Wer bist du?’

‘I’m…’ Sending silent apologies towards Santa Maria della Vedetta, she said, ‘Cristina Gennaro.’

The German soldier had taken off his helmet, showing cropped, fair hair and he looked to be only a year or two older than Danielo. His eyes were pale blue. Saxon colouring, like Cedric’s. Perhaps this lad was a farmer’s son too. ‘I only work here,’ she stammered. ‘In the kitchen. I cook, make bread.’ A nervous gesture indicated the covered bowl of dough. ‘The dog won’t hurt you.’ Renzo had started whining at the sound of her voice. It was a mercy he was too weak to growl.

‘He’s yours, the dog?’ The young soldier kept his machine gun pointed towards her.

‘He’s mine, yes.’

‘Then why do you starve him? He deserves more respect. You Italians treat your dogs shamefully.’

She denied it. ‘That’s not how it is. He was a stray.’

‘He’s a hunting dog, girl, not a street mongrel. A Spinone is a valuable dog.’

‘Yes, but they get turned off if they’re not fast enough or too noisy at the hunt. I saved him.’

Renzo gave a well-timed whimper.

‘You want to sell him?’

‘No!’

‘I mean to take a Spinone back with me to Rendsburg. That’s where I’m from.’

‘Yes, but…’ Not my dog. Carmela warned herself to choose the right words. The German’s casual manner was disorientating in light of the violent noises coming from above. But she strove to match his tone. ‘Why not get a wire-haired pointer when you’re home? They’re more intelligent.’

‘Yes, German pointers are the most intelligent dogs, alongside our shepherd dogs. I wanted to be a military dog-handler, but I was taken into the Waffen SS because I am also highly intelligent.’ Was that a twitch of humour? Carmela wasn’t sure. In

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