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und； accepting the habits of weather； evening stars； the sound of birds。 there was a sofa； a piano covered in a grey sheet； the head of a stuffed bear and high walls of books。 the shelves nearest the torn wall bowed with the rain； which had doubled the weight of the books。 lightning came into the room too； again and again； falling across the covered piano and carpet。
at the far end were french doors that were boarded up。 if they had been open she could have walked from the library to the loggia； then down thirty…six penitent steps past the chapel towards what had been an ancient meadow； scarred now by phosphorus bombs and explosions。 the german army had mined many of the houses they retreated from； so most rooms not needed； like this one； had been sealed for safety； the doors hammered into their frames。
she knew these dangers when she slid into the room； walking into its afternoon darkness。 she stood conscious suddenly of her weight on the wooden floor； thinking it was probably enough to trigger whatever mechanism was there。 her feet in dust。
the only light poured through the jagged mortar circle that looked onto the sky。
with a crack of separation； as if it were being dismantled from one single unit； she pulled out the last of the mohicans and even in this half…light was cheered by the aquamarine sky and lake on the cover illustration； the indian in the foreground。 and then； as if there were someone in the room who was not to be disturbed； she walked backwards； stepping on her own footprints； for safety； but also as part of a private game； so it would seem from the steps that she had entered the room and then the corporeal body had disappeared。 she closed the door and replaced the seal of warning。
she sat in the window alcove in the english patient’s room； the painted walls on one side of her； the valley on the other。 she opened the book。 the pages were joined together in a stiff wave。 she felt like crusoe finding a drowned book that had washed up and dried itself on the shore。 a narrative of 1757。 illustrated by n。 c。 wyeth。 as in all of the best books； there was the important page with the list of illustrations； a line of text for each of them。
she entered the story knowing she would emerge from it feeling she had been immersed in the lives of others； in plots that stretched back twenty years； her body full of sentences and moments； as if awaking from sleep with a heaviness caused by unremembered dreams。
their italian hill town； sentinel to the northwest route； had been besieged for more than a month； the barrage focusing upon the two villas and the monastery surrounded by apple and plum orchards。 there was the villa medici； where the generals lived。
just above it the villa san girolamo； previously a nunnery； whose castlelike battlements had made it the last stronghold of the german army。 it had housed a hundred troops。 as the hill town began to be torn apart like a battleship at sea； by fire shells； the troops moved from the barrack tents in the orchard into the now crowded bedrooms of the old nunnery。 sections of the chapel were blown up。 parts of the top storey of the villa crumbled under explosions。 when the allies finally took over the building and made it a hospital； the steps leading to the third level were sealed off； though a section of chimney and roof survived。
she and the englishman had insisted on remaining behind when the other nurses and patients moved to a safer location in the south。 during this time they were very cold； without electricity。 some rooms faced onto the valley with no walls at all。 she would open a door and see just a sodden bed huddled against a corner； covered with leaves。 doors opened into landscape。
some rooms had bee an open aviary。
the staircase had lost its lower steps during the fire that was set before the soldiers left。 she had gone into the library； removed twenty books and nailed them to the floor and then onto each other； in this way rebuilding the two lowest steps。 most of the chairs had been used for fires。 the armchair in the library was left there because it was always wet； drenched by evening storms that came in through the mortar hole。 whatever was wet escaped burning during that april of 1945。 there were few beds left。 she herself preferred to be nomadic in the house with her pallet or hammock； sleeping sometimes in the english patient’s room； sometimes in the hall； depending on temperature or wind or light。 in the morning she rolled up her mattress and tied it into a wheel with string。 now it was warmer and she was opening more rooms； airing the dark reaches； letting sunlight dry all the dampness。 some nights she opened doors and slept in rooms that had walls missing。 she lay on the pallet on the very edge of the room； facing the drifting landscape of stars； moving clouds； wakened by the growl of thunder and lightning。
she was twenty years old and mad and unconcerned with safety during this time； having no qualms about the dangers of the possibly mined library or the thunder that startled her in the night。 she was restless after the cold months； when she had been limited to dark； protected spaces。 she entered rooms that had been soiled by soldiers； rooms whose furniture had been burned within them。 she cleared out leaves and shit and urine and charred tables。 she was living like a vagrant； while elsewhere the english patient reposed in his bed like a king。
from outside； the place seemed devastated。 an outdoor staircase disappeared in midair； its railing hanging off。 their life was foraging and tentative safety。 they used only essential candlelight at night because of the brigands who annihilated everything they came across。 they were protected by the simple fact that the villa seemed a ruin。 but she felt safe here； half adult and half child。 ing out of what had happened to her during the war； she drew her own few rules to herself。 she would not be ordered again or carry out duties for the greater good。 she would care only for the burned patient。 she would read to him and bathe him and give him his doses of morphine—her only munication was with him。
she worked in the garden and orchard。 she carried the six…foot crucifix from the bombed chapel and used it to build a scarecrow above her seedbed； hanging empty sardine cans from it which clattered and clanked whenever the wind lifted。
within the villa she would step from rubble to a candlelit alcove where there was her neatly packed suitcase； which held little besides some letters； a few rolled…up clothes； a metal box of medical supplies。 she had cleared just small sections of the villa； and all this she could burn down if she wished。
she lights a match in the dark hall and moves it onto the wick of the candle。 light lifts itself onto her shoulders。 she is on her knees。 she puts her hands on her thighs and breathes in the smell of the sulphur。 she imagines she also breathes in light。
she moves backwards a few feet and with a piece of white chalk draws a rectangle onto the wood floor。 then continues backwards； drawing more rectangles； so there is a pyramid of them； single then double then single； her left hand braced flat on the floor； her head down； serious。 s