Hero on a Bicycle by Shirley Hughes

in, thank heavens.”
    Joe had revived enough to sip some hot tea laced with a little brandy, and Rosemary began to dress his shoulder. As she worked, he and Paolo described their night’s adventure. Paolo was calmer now.
    When the bandage was on, Joe lay back, exhausted. “Looks as though I’ve turned up here again like a bad nickel,” he said with a weak grin, “but don’t worry, I’ll get away again somehow. . . .”
    “Is it possible you could be traced back here, do you think?” asked Rosemary anxiously.
    “We weren’t followed — I’m pretty sure of that,” said Paolo. “If we had been, they would have caught up with us long before we got back here.”
    Rosemary pressed her hands to her forehead, struggling to remain calm, or at least not to let her panic show. She had no idea what to do next.
    “I can’t get a doctor for you, Joe. It’s far too risky,” she said. “Nobody outside this household must know what’s happened. We’re very suspect here. But you can’t possibly go on the run in this state.”
    “I won’t let you risk having me here any longer,” said Joe. “The Partisans will be in contact. They’ll get me away somehow. . . .”
    “Not until you’ve rested and gotten over the shock,” said Rosemary. “We’ll hide you in the cellar. Nobody will suspect anything if we lie low and act as normal as possible.”
    Joe tried to rally the energy to insist, but he was too tired.
    “I keep thinking about David — what they’ll do to the poor guy. We ran away and left him. . . .” Joe screwed up his face in agony.
    “From what you say, there wasn’t much else you could do except get taken yourselves or be shot,” said Constanza.
    “Yeah, I know, I know.” Joe reached out his good hand to Paolo. “You were great, kid, just great. They’d have gotten me, too, if it hadn’t been for you. You’re a whole heap braver than most of the army guys I know, and that’s for sure.”
    Suddenly, Paolo covered his face with his hands and began to weep. Rosemary held him tightly.
    “Right now, what we all need is some sleep,” she said.

T hey were awoken late the following morning by the ominous sound of gunfire coming from the hills north of Florence. It sounded as though the fighting was getting ever nearer to the city. Maria was in a particularly unmanageable state of panic mixed with stubborn bad temper, and she slammed around the kitchen, muttering dire warnings. Joe was still asleep in the cellar, but she refused to go down there or have anything to do with the americano, as she called him, insisting that he would get them all shot.
    It was Constanza who went down to wake him and give him breakfast. He was almost too exhausted to eat and just wanted to drift in and out of sleep.
    “Poor Joe — it’s so dark and stuffy down there,” Constanza said to her mother when she came back upstairs, “and it smells of damp.”
    “It’ll begin to smell of Joe, too, before long,” said Paolo, chewing a roll, his spirits and appetite now fully restored.
    “It’s too risky for him to come out, not even into the yard,” said Rosemary. “There are German troops on the move everywhere.”
    “I can try to find the Partisans,” said Paolo. “I’ve got my bicycle.”
    But Rosemary was adamantly against any such suggestion. “I absolutely forbid you to leave the house, Paolo, and that’s final. You could put us all in danger, maybe even get us arrested. We’ll just have to hang on until they contact us. They’ll get in touch somehow.”
    But, as it turned out, it was not the Partisans but the police who broke the silence that hung over the house that day. Around noon the telephone rang. Rosemary answered.
    “Signora Crivelli? This is Captain Spinetti of the carabinieri. Is it possible to have a private word with you? I must be brief.”
    “Of course, Captain.”
    “Both your children are at home?”
    “Yes — we’ve been told to keep indoors. We have enough food to last for a