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She thought about his shock at her forthcoming marriage. She hadn’t wanted to admit her full feelings about the situation to a relative stranger in front of the family; saving face was important. But she so desperately wanted to sit her parents down and argue for herself, to tell them that she had dreams of learning about the world, of travelling and doing something beyond what most of the girls around her aspired to. Her parents had scoffed whenever she’d aired her thoughts about such things. She knew that neither meant to be dismissive, but they expected her to start working in the bar full-time soon. After the wedding, she’d be working for her husband, and perhaps her brothers once they were old enough to take over the business… if it still existed. Her pastizzi might become as famous as her grandmother’s, but that would be the extent of her mark on the world… her very small world, which had become even smaller through this war.

Before, she had at least lived in a thriving city; a living, breathing place full of people and shops, of restaurants and bars, of schools and children’s laughter, of people calling out greetings or gossiping in the streets, or old men drinking coffee and smoking, nodding at each other’s words about the state of the world. Now the streets were deserted, ruined, the buildings emptied and so many destroyed, along with the life that used to populate them.

They were all waiting out a war that had come to them for no other reason than the powerful nations having decided the country was strategic. Valentina had learned that Malta, with its position in the Mediterranean, provided somewhere for the Allies to house and maintain their fighter aircraft and pilots that served the greater region. It was a supply base for Britain’s army, fighting in Africa and the Middle East. It was also from here that the Allied effort, as it was known, could disrupt the supply chain of their enemies, who were in places like Libya. She’d taken the world map off the wall at school – no one else needed it, ever since the class had become so depleted – and had smuggled it back to where her family was now forced to reside and she frequently stared at it in the thin light. She could find tiny Malta, a mere speck, and then trace a finger to all the other countries that were considered dangerous or essential, depending on which side it fought. It had helped her understand why Britain needed Malta to stand firm, and why it had airfields and permanently stationed aviators like Peter and military people here. She’d tried explaining Malta’s relevance to her brothers, who were constantly asking why the war was affecting them. ‘Look, do you see? It sits between Europe, here’—she had pointed to the map—‘and Africa and the eastern side of the world.’ Her voice held a note of awe. ‘Imagine how vital we are to the supply chain of weapons, food and materials, boys.’ But their attention didn’t last longer than a glance at the map. Ganni was ten and Matteo not quite twelve, and they didn’t care about the world or strategic positions. They just wanted the war to end so they could go back to kicking footballs freely and playing with their friends wherever they wanted. They were still so young in their minds… or was it that she was mature in her thoughts? No one had thought of her as a child for a long time, and suddenly she had family responsibilities that included marrying a thug. But she couldn’t express such thankless thoughts. Her parents were pressured enough just trying to survive, to keep the family close and safe and make sure the three children had something to earn a living from after they’d gone.

Valentina could remember a time not so long ago when they would all journey inland a mile or two from the city for picnics. At Marsa, they’d watch foreigners play cricket or polo – even a strange sport called golf. Sometimes her family would take their picnic to one of the lovely beaches not far from the city; once, at the height of summer, they had even travelled south for a few days for a camping holiday in the quiet, sheltered inlet of the Blue Grotto. There they had swum, cooked food over an open fire and stretched out lazily beneath a benevolent sun.

Now no one went anywhere, and their whole way of life was about surviving another day and hoping that the Allies would somehow chase the invaders away, or that their priorities would change.

She thought again of Peter’s handsome face. She loved its grooves, the long dimples that deepened when he smiled and the creases his eyes made with the same expression. She wondered what it would be like to be Delia and able to run her fingers through his gleaming yellow hair or trace her fingertips along the stubble of his cheeks. She suspected he would be horrified if he ever learned of her crush, and it would be too much for her father to bear. He’d ban Peter from the bar, perhaps even report him to someone, and yet Peter was innocent. He’d done nothing except encourage her to follow her dreams.

It was all her. Her heart. Her despair about her life ahead. Peter had seemed like a saviour, an opportunity to change her future, but he was a married man and she was promised to another.

Maybe death was the answer. A direct hit, crushed by the city’s stone that she loved so much. It would be poetic, perhaps. Besides, death came to everyone one day; why not her now?

She knew she had no control over her death, reckless as she had been, staying outside while the sirens blared. But she felt as though she had no control over her life either. And she wanted to live. Wanted to do something meaningful with her life that brought her joy in its endeavour. And she wanted to love someone and be loved back.

Amongst these bleak thoughts, while the city shuddered under the latest raid, as people around her squealed or shrieked, Valentina remained silent, head bowed, and reached a decision.

Her mother was surely the answer. Her mother would do something to stop this marriage to Lawrenz.

If Valentina one day had a daughter desperate to carve a new and better path for herself than what she, and her mother before her, had been forced to walk, she would do anything she could to help her. Machete in hand, she’d hack her way through everything that stood in the way.

She needed her mother to side with her, to encourage and help her in her passion to be defined as more than a wife and a mother. Women weren’t meant to have greater ambitions, she understood that, but surely her mother would want her to lead a charge towards a different life.

But you’ve already tried, a voice inside her head argued. It’s pointless. Your future has already been written, like the history books you love to read.

Another bomb, close to where they were, rocked the city and made the women she huddled with scream. Not Valentina, though. She closed her eyes and dared the Germans to kill her and put her out of her wretched misery.

SEVEN

After his illicit outing, Peter had stayed in his bed obediently, but he was far from comfortable with his injuries and found sleep near impossible. For that reason, he and another military inmate were soon going across the road from the hospital together to stand near Fort St Elmo and greet the day.

The hospital team was permitting his companion, John, to push him in a wheelchair, which Nurse Maria, leading the thin-lipped brigade, was insisting upon.

‘It’s the chair or you’re not going,’ she’d said the first time it had been suggested. ‘You must give your body a chance to heal.’

He could tell he was frustrating her with his disobedience; nurses clearly liked their patients quiet and still.

‘I’ve asked Squadron Leader Osborne to accompany you,’ she added.

‘Who? Is he…?’ Peter trailed off as an older man in RAF uniform trousers but an open-collared shirt arrived in his room.

‘Hello there. John.’ The man held out a hand. ‘You can drop the title, given we’re shuffling around in pyjamas,’ he said, his neat moustache straightening over a wide, boyish smile.

‘What happened to you, sir?’ Peter asked.

‘Oh, I had to make an emergency landing and got myself a bit bashed up in the bargain,’ he said, as though it was all a great joke. ‘Took a hit to the head,’ he added, not bothering to point to the bandage just above one ear, ‘and I’ve broken a couple of ribs.’

‘Me too, sir. Awkward buggers, aren’t they?’

His senior laughed. ‘Just don’t sneeze. Look, I can’t fly for a while, so it’s very frustrating, as I’m sure you know. You’re in a worse spot than I am, with that shoulder. I’ll be discharged in the next couple of days.’

‘I’ve tried breaking out, sir, but they hunted me down.’

John threw him a grin. ‘Yes, well, you’re no good to us broken, so give yourself a chance to heal, as Nurse Maria insists. We need you back up in the air. How much longer are you here in Malta?’

‘I’ve been here just over a month, sir. So I’d like to fulfil my whole three months.’