The tall trees provide welcome shade from the hot sun. There is no sound except the distant drone of a moped toiling up the Apennine mountain road. The hollow where my father sometimes hid (and I now sit) is beneath a rock that juts out from the hillside like an aquiline nose above a dark moustache.
Peering over the rim, like a leveret from its form, I gaze through a gap in the leaf canopy and see below the old farm house, where an Italian family ignored the danger and risked their lives by sheltering an escaped prisoner of war.
Peering over the rim, like a leveret from its form, I gaze through a gap in the leaf canopy and see below the old farm house, where an Italian family ignored the danger and risked their lives by sheltering an escaped prisoner of war.
