seemed more like a murderer than this sad little man.But the Englishman was dead and Cipolla was not, and the Marshal had a job to do.He had never liked it less.
'How old were you during the war?' he asked suddenly.
'About six when it finished.'
'Can you remember much about it?'
The Marshal wondered why he was asking these questions. Perhaps he wanted to show an interest in the little cleaner, to take some notice of him.
'Only a little replied Cipolla. 'Mostly near the end, when we had to leave. They dropped a bomb on our house.'
'Where did you go?'
'My mother thought we'd be safer in the country...She had a sister who lived near Rome. She said there'd be food there. She said there was always food in the country.'
'And was there?'
'No. We collected wild plants and cooked them.'
'How many were you?'
'Four, with my mother.'
'And your aunt?'
'We never found her. They'd dropped a bomb on her house, too. We lived in a farm building-for animals. But then the planes came. They dropped bombs. My mother hated them all because they were trying to murder her children. And I remember that there were a lot of fires and that I was hungry.'
'What happened next?'