David Hewson
The Flood
The water you touch in a river is the last of that which has passed, and the first of that which is coming. Thus it is with time present.
Friday, 30 October 1942
The boy was four, a pretty child, slim, dark-haired with bright and thoughtful eyes. On this cold, wet day he stood by the bridge to the Castel Sant’Angelo, the city side, not far from home, staring at the stone angels and the vast brown shape across the river. They said it was once the tomb of an emperor, one of the greatest Rome had ever known. But he was a child, so it reminded him of nothing more than the little drum he had in their cramped one-room apartment in the ghetto, the only toy he owned.
Down the Lungotevere soldiers marched in dark uniforms, rifles to their shoulders, gleaming bayonets pointing at a sky so flat and lacking in colour he might have drawn it with a soft pencil and a sheet of paper. He wondered if these serious, frightening men thought their blades could pierce the clouds themselves, slashing their leaden bellies, bringing the heavens down to earth.
His father said the soldiers could do anything they wanted now. The boy didn’t understand what that meant. But in the morning warplanes had flown over the city, their low and threatening engines bellowing like the voice of a great mechanical storm. From the windows of the great palace in the Piazza Venezia the man they called ‘Il Duce’ had spoken to a vast, adoring crowd.
Best not go, his mother told him. We’re not welcome there.
And all the time it rained. He stared at the river, swollen to a torrent, muddy brown, with branches and debris floating on the surface as it raced through Rome. He’d heard there’d been floods before, times when the Tiber burst its banks and brought its freezing, dank presence into the crowded city itself. An inquisitive, curious child, he wondered what a flood might be like. Did people take to boats? Was there a new danger brought into a world that already seemed fragile and perilous? He couldn’t swim, had never learned. It wasn’t a good idea to go to the baths, they said. Best to stay home, in the ghetto, safe among those who were like you.
Which meant… he wasn’t sure. The other families had habits, rituals, a certain style of dress. On the day called Sabbath they turned more stony-faced than usual and went to the synagogue. But not so much of late, and never in his case. The three of them — father, mother, son — were ‘secular’, whatever that meant. One day he’d ask. Not now.
Across the bridge, life was different. Bigger, brighter, bolder, more colourful. Safer too. The Vatican was there, another country, one ruled by the Pope, a man from a different religion, another life. That place was set apart from his world in a way the boy couldn’t begin to comprehend. St Peter’s, the Pope’s beautiful basilica, with its vast, bright dome, stood on a hill, apart from ordinary Romans. The flood, if it came, would never reach there. Those severe men in their bright robes, cardinals and bishops, the ones he’d seen from time to time scuttling about Rome looking miserable and worried, would hide behind their pale brick walls and let the world outside go any way it wanted, or so his father said.
‘What’s troubling you, child?’
The man holding his hand had a warm and kindly voice. He was a priest of the Pope, in a long black robe and strange circular hat. In his left hand was a vast umbrella, one broad enough to keep the rain off both of them. His name was Peter and he came from a place called Ireland. That must have been why he spoke with a funny accent. Not that this mattered. He was a good man, or so the boy’s father said, and he wasn’t someone who gave out praise easily.
‘Why are we here?’
Something was happening and it frightened him.
‘Your mother and father have to go away for a little while.’
‘What for?’
‘They’ll be gone soon. This morning.’ The child noticed he was watching the troops milling along the riverside as he spoke. ‘That’s what I understand.’
‘Why can’t I go with them?’
‘It’s a long way. These are awkward times. They need you to be brave.’
The boy thought of their little apartment. His few belongings there. When the priest came for him just after nine his mother had cried, held him in her arms, hugging so hard it hurt. His father watched, grim-faced, pale, then patted him once on the back as if to say: on with it. The child hadn’t known what to do, what words to utter. So he simply stood there, stiff and cold and frightened, then left with Peter, the priest in black, when they said it was time to go.
‘Will the soldiers kill them?’
The priest’s face changed. It became stiff, wracked with an emotion unreadable to a scared four-year-old child standing by the swollen Tiber, holding the hand of a stranger.
Peter bent down and gazed into his face. ‘Of course not. What makes you say that?’
‘I think things. I dream them.’
‘That’s called your imagination, which is a blessing in many ways. A kind of pet. And, like a pet, you need to keep it firmly on a lead. Remember: those dreams aren’t real. They never will be.’
The boy wondered whether to say what was in his head: he’d never had a pet. There wasn’t room or money for one.
Instead he closed his eyes and in his mind saw the muddy brown waters of the Tiber rising like the ocean, pouring over the stone walls that ran beside the river, roaring into the ghetto and the city beyond, sweeping away everything: men and women and children; cars and soldiers; tanks and all the guard posts set up on the street corners. There were bodies on the surging waves, skeletons and corpses, and all their faces turned to him and asked a single question: why?
Shaken by this interior sight, he opened his eyes to look at the wet, grey day again and saw the bridge, the drum-like Castel Sant’Angelo, and the stone angels, with faces that seemed both happy and sad at the same time.
‘There’s a game we must play,’ Peter said.
‘Not good at games…’
‘It goes like this,’ the priest continued. ‘When we walk across the river we will go to see a friend of mine outside the Vatican. There we’ll get in a car and you’ll leave the city for a little while. Until things are better for you and for your mother and father. Which won’t be long.’
‘How long?’
The child could hear the surging tones of the torrent below. They seemed to be getting louder all the time.
‘Be brave, be patient,’ the priest went on. ‘Here is the game.’
‘Not good at games.’
The figure in black bent down and his pale and whiskery face came close to the child’s. There was a strong smell on his breath, both pleasant and offensive. His eyes were watery and pink. Even though this man knew God, was one of His servants, he was not content.
‘You must be good, child,’ the priest said firmly. ‘For all our sakes. These terrible times may…’ He shook his head and tried to smile. ‘May yet get worse if the Germans take the place of that man.’ His placid face became stiff with anger. ‘Mussolini. Please… try.’
‘What game?’
Peter, the Irishman, pointed at the footbridge with the frozen figures, eyes turned to heaven.
‘When you cross the Ponte Sant’Angelo,’ he said, ‘those angels will take your name. Your real name. They’ll keep it safe for as long as they need to. So you’ll never forget it. Never lose it. Till things get better, your name will stay a secret. Between you and them.’ His finger touched the boy’s nose lightly and he beamed, happy once more, or so he seemed to say. ‘And me.’
‘What will I be called then?’
‘Giuseppe, I think. You like it?’
‘I hate it.’