While the men unloaded the equipment from the wine store, she slipped over to the tower to unlock the heavy wooden door. Inside it was an ice box. Once she’d crossed the dark room, she ran her hands along the rough walls, searching with her fingertips as she fumbled for, and eventually located, a switch. Her heart thumped as she carried on up in the dim light and then eased open the door to the top room. It smelt musty, as if something had died up there.
The shutters at the windows had been left open so, inch by inch, desperate not to make a sound, she closed them and then covered them with blackout fabric tacked on to the wood.
She’d left the main door to the tower ajar and now heard footsteps on the stairs as James appeared. Aldo stood behind him in the doorway with one of the partisans – the man called Marco – both carrying the equipment. The smaller partisan followed behind with Maxine. James looked around and glanced at the narrow opening at the back.
‘Old stone staircase to the roof,’ she said.
He took charge of setting everything up while Sofia asked the two partisans to go back down and clear whatever was causing the blockage in the hidden passage. It led all the way behind a false wall from the first floor of the tower, through the other buildings, mainly storage facilities, to her house and her bedroom.
‘Please be quick and quiet. Once we’ve set up the equipment and made the first transmission, we’ll need to get it downstairs then hide it in the passage.’
James opened the water-tight metal container and told them it was not the suitcase type of radio.
‘Wouldn’t the suitcase kind have been a better idea?’ Aldo asked.
‘This is well padded. The suitcase wouldn’t survive a parachute drop. This is a B2 radio set. Works with Morse code.’
‘But harder to move around,’ Aldo said, and Sofia was pleased he was engaging with this.
Maxine came up to stand beside James. ‘Right then,’ she said. ‘What I need you to do is transmit a message to my liaison officer, Ronald. Tell him I’ve made contact here and that I will let him know of approximate numbers as soon as I have them. Okay?’
James nodded and then, from inside the padding within the metal container, he took out a smaller container marked ‘G’.
‘The transmitter and receiver are here,’ he said, glancing up at Aldo.
He removed the lid from the smaller container and continued explaining everything to Aldo as he worked at setting up the equipment and the cable that functioned as an aerial. Then, after connecting the transmitter and receiver to the rechargeable power supply unit, he put on his headphones and began to tune the band selector.
He showed Aldo an envelope clipped to the inside cover of the large metal box, then removed the envelope and took out several printed pages of extremely thin paper. ‘It’s the operating chart.’
‘How many pages are there?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘Santo Cielo, so many,’ Aldo said, frowning.
Although Sofia had faith in him, Aldo looked as if he might never understand how this complex equipment worked. She’d hoped learning from James might be the perfect compromise as he’d be supporting the Allies without having to take part in even more dangerous sabotage missions.
‘This last page shows the calibration charts,’ James was saying.
A loud bang interrupted them. James spun round to Sofia and their eyes met.
‘Maybe it’s a door blowing in the wind,’ she said. ‘Or it could be the men removing the blockage in the passageway.’
He put a finger to his lips as they both continued to listen. She could feel her heart pounding against her ribs and struggled to stop her teeth from chattering.
‘I’ll go,’ Maxine said.
18.
Maxine slipped quickly down the stairs and out of the tower, glancing about her as she padded stealthily around the village, relieved neither to see light in any of the houses nor, so far, any sign of Germans.
The icy night-time air caught in her throat. Who knew it could be so cold in Tuscany? Her mother’s nostalgia hadn’t quite run to explaining about the winters. In Luisa’s mind it had always been spring, with fields of red poppies, banks of wild iris, the intoxicating scent of fresh rosemary, and all of it under a seamless blue sky.
Without warning, another loud bang interrupted her thinking. Had this one come from the direction of the tower? What if the others weren’t safe or something had gone terribly wrong? Maybe the Germans had found out already? She frowned. She had been listening intently and there had been no sound of any vehicle arriving.
She sniffed the lingering trace of woodsmoke in the air. An owl hooted, night birds rustled in the trees, and creatures – wild boar perhaps or maybe a fox – scratched about in the vegetable gardens. She felt she could hear the breath of the village itself – in, out, in, out – a never-ending beat. A moment later, alert to movement, she caught sight of something in one of the alleys and paused, rigid with nerves. After a few seconds she took a couple of steps back, then paused again. Nothing. Must have been her imagination. But then a twig snapped. A cat? Or crushed beneath a German boot?
She decided to glance down the alley again, her breath coming fast. This time she saw a small dark figure darting from a recessed doorway into the alley, and then vanishing around the corner at the end. For a moment she didn’t dare move, uncertain whether to try to follow the person or to hurry to the tower to warn the others. Then she spotted a door swinging back and forth – at least she now knew the cause of the banging.
But she was certain she hadn’t imagined the figure and, with no further hesitation, she hurried back towards the tower, considering whom of the villagers could be out this late on such a cold night. She didn’t have her watch, but it had to be way after midnight now.
As she went over this in her head, the large tower door opened with a sudden creak and the small partisan called Lodo slipped out carrying some pieces of what looked like board. He melted into the night without acknowledging that he’d seen her. She heard the eerie scream of a wild cat in the distance and quickly went in through the unlocked door, located the stairs by the dim lamp and climbed cautiously. At the top she pushed the door and went in. Three heads were bent over the equipment, and only Sofia looked round. Maxine watched as James continued explaining the process to Aldo and Marco.
Sofia beckoned her over. ‘What the hell was it?’ she hissed.
She bristled at Sofia’s imperious tone but told her about the person she’d seen running down the alley.
‘Would you be able to recognize them?’ Sofia asked.
Maxine shook her head.
‘Pity.’
‘They were small, whoever they were.’
‘A woman?’ Sofia asked
‘Maybe. Have they finished the transmission?’
‘Packing up now. We need to make this room look and smell like an artist’s studio – turps, oils, that sort of thing. You can give me a hand. We’ll do it later in the morning.’
‘Did they clear the passageway?’
‘Yes.’
As Sofia moved away, Maxine caught Marco’s eye and beckoned him to follow her out.
She reached the house ahead of the others and, without anyone seeing, dragged Marco into the downstairs washroom. After that, she waited for Sofia to come in and go up to her bedroom. Once she was certain Sofia’s door had closed, she tiptoed ahead of Marco and cautiously led him upstairs to her own room where she flipped on the lamp on her nightstand. Unconvinced, he shook his head, whispered it wasn’t right, insisted he ought to go, but she wrapped an arm round his neck and pulled him close. Then she kissed him hard on the lips. He stopped objecting and smiled at her, his caramel-coloured eyes shining. She stroked his gleaming olive skin and ran her fingers through his dark curly hair. Like a gypsy, she thought again.
She took him by the hand and led him to her bed. There they lay fully dressed on top of the covers.
‘Is this how it’s going to go?’ he asked.
&
nbsp; ‘What?’
‘We stay on top of the covers? You have noticed it’s freezing?’
‘I thought you could undress me. Very, very slowly.’
‘Another time,’ he said. ‘It’s too cold.’
They both began to laugh, and she put a finger to her lips, enjoying the secrecy. There was nothing quite like illicit sex.
He grinned and began to undo the buttons of her blouse very slowly, fumbling even.
‘I’ll show you what slowly really means, young lady,’ he whispered when she urged him on.
He touched her with fluttering fingers, so lightly she drew in her breath. He was captivating, charming, but he was also stretching out the minutes, forcing her to wait as the pressure built inside her. If he didn’t take the next step, and quickly, she was going to burst. The wicked expression on his face revealed his intent to carry on taking his time, so she narrowed her eyes and, pushing him away, removed her blouse herself. He stroked her breasts through the thin cotton of her chemise, then rubbed a thumb around her nipple. Still icily cold, she gasped and pressed against him. He slowly pulled the straps down over her shoulders and ran his tongue down the side of her neck. Her moan was designed to hurry him, but he ignored it, bending his head to kiss her shoulders still agonizingly slowly, before cupping her breasts. She arched her back and moaned again. He was strong, firm and muscular, and she pushed herself against him more insistently than before. He held the bedcovers up and eased them both under. Finally, feverish with frustration and longing, she tore off her own underwear. At first, she shivered, but then he stroked her stomach and, dizzy with wanting him, her entire body caught fire, the energy fizzing and bubbling. His hands were in her hair, his lips on her flesh. He kissed her inner thighs, still taking his time, and she finally gave herself up to the slowness of it. And, as she did, as if he had known she had surrendered, he rolled on top and thrust inside her. When it was over, legs entwined, she basked in the aftermath, sweating, her breath slowly calming. There was something different here, a sense of real connection. She was sure of it.
Before this evening she had so wanted to see Marco again, wanted to work out how she felt, but now she drew away. She was unused to this kind of hunger, had promised herself never to fall in love and had always seen marriage as entrapment. Love was the surest path to a woman’s downfall.
Even her father, whom she’d once loved so much, had lost her respect when she first spotted her mother’s bruises. She’d been about eight, feeling sick and not wanting to go to school. When her mother, Luisa, insisted she get dressed and go all the same, she’d clutched her mother’s arm and begged to stay home. Luisa had winced then snapped at her; later, when her mother rolled up her sleeves to do the washing-up, it hadn’t taken long for the penny to drop. Once Maxine had caught a glimpse of the tell-tale purple and yellow marks on her mother’s lower arms, she worked out that it always seemed to happen when her father arrived home late smelling of drink, his nose bulbous, his cheeks red. She’d heard the shouts before, of course, without understanding her mother was being physically hurt. Once Maxine had discovered the truth, she’d cried herself to sleep on many a night.
From then on, Maxine had sworn that a monotonous life punctuated only by violence would never be her fate. Later, in her teens and developing a pronounced rebellious streak, she had attempted to talk to Luisa about the beatings, but her mother had shushed her. It had been different, she’d said, when they’d lived in Italy. Alessandro had been a good man back then. The farm had kept him fully occupied and, although running a farm was back-breaking work, their life had been rewarding. They’d been happy. Back then the drinking had only really been with meals, when everyone drank wine together, even the children. She’d sighed and said the trouble began because Alessandro had never got over leaving his homeland, even though it had been so many years ago.
‘When you love someone, you love them,’ she’d said rather sadly. ‘No matter what.’
‘Really?’ Maxine had been horrified. ‘No matter what? You let a man knock you about?’
With a pang of regret, she wished she’d been able to do more to help, but her mother had made more excuses, saying it was normal. It had been enough for Maxine to make up her mind. A wife bore the children, took on the brunt of the childcare, often worked outside the home too, and besides that did all the shopping, all the housework and looked after the elderly and the sick. Only to be bullied by a man. No. Never. Not for her. It may have been her mother’s fate to be voiceless and silent in her suffering, but it never would be Maxine’s.
‘So why?’ Marco asked, bringing her back to the present.
‘Why what?’
‘Why did your parents leave?’
She frowned. ‘You ask me this now? Didn’t I tell you?’
‘Not really. I like to get things straight.’
‘Checking up on my story, more like.’
‘Do you blame me? We don’t get many beautiful American women lending us a hand.’
‘The land was no longer enough for them.’
‘And that was all?’
‘As far as I know. Yes.’
‘And you want to see where your family came from?’
‘Indeed.’
He looked puzzled. ‘Couldn’t you have come before the war, in peacetime?’
‘Well, every time I talked to my parents about it, they persuaded me not to.’
He laughed. ‘You don’t strike me as someone who’s easily persuaded.’
‘I’m not.’ She paused and scratched her ear. ‘In the end, I came without their approval. Or rather, I went to London as a journalist without their approval. They just had to accept it. They don’t actually know I’m here in Italy. I was instructed not to let my family know.’
‘But why didn’t they want you to come to Italy before the war?’
‘I’m not sure. I was still relatively young and they didn’t like Mussolini.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Marco with a grimace. ‘We’ve had to put up with him since 1922.’
There was a short pause.
‘Don’t you want to know more about me?’ he asked.
Surprised, she half sat up and gazed down at him. He reached up to stroke her hair.
‘I do,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to ask … I thought …’
‘You’re right. We train ourselves not to reveal who we really are.’
‘Maybe tell me why you joined the partisans?’
He rubbed his eyes and she lay back down to snuggle up close with a palm on his chest so that she could feel his heart.
‘Before the war my older brother was taken by the Fascists. We never saw him again.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It happened, and not only to us. But I swore when the time was right, I would fight them. My brother never supported Mussolini, few of us really did, but he’d been too outspoken, and then one night they came. We don’t know what they did to him, but we can guess. I still have a sister, but the loss of my brother broke my mother.’
‘Oh, Marco.’
He gazed into her eyes and they were silent for a long time. Moved by his passion, both for the cause and as a man, she truly admired him.
He was the one who broke the silence. ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’
‘One brother, a year older than me.’
‘He’s good to you?’
‘Good enough.’
He sighed. ‘We can’t make a habit of this, you know,’ he said.
The pleasure evaporated and she experienced a well of sadness opening. She didn’t want to hear this and felt torn. ‘Why not?’ she asked in a low voice.
‘Because it isn’t safe. We have to use our discretion, maintain our separate identities.’
‘And what about feelings?’ she asked.
‘They become a weakness. The enemy is always on the lookout for weak links in the chain.’
‘Well,’ she said, and tried for a more light-hearted response than she reall
y felt. ‘We’d better make the most of it now.’
He kissed her on the lips then shook his head. ‘It’s time to sleep.’
She switched off the light but as his breathing began to deepen, her thoughts churned. Why did she have to find someone she liked so much at such an impossible time?
‘Are you still awake?’ she said.
‘Mmmm?’
‘I want to come on your next mission, whatever it is.’
‘Very well.’
‘Very well?’ she said, surprised.
He laughed. ‘Anything for a night’s sleep!’
19.
Sofia felt reluctant to wake and surfaced slowly, rubbing her cold arms. And when she opened the curtains, she drew back at the sight of a vicious wind blowing the trees about. But at least it was moving the clouds away, and patches of brilliant blue were beginning to emerge. Hoping fresh air would lighten her mood, she dressed quickly and went downstairs where she reached for Lorenzo’s old coat, which usually hung on a hook by the back door. He was so tall it trailed along the ground when she wore it, but she liked the spicy smell of his aftershave and his cigars and often slipped it on for comfort as well as warmth. Now, as she found the coat missing, she remembered that Maxine had been wearing it in the tower.
Outside, she glanced up at the tower. Maybe she should have left the shutters open, as they had been before their transmission. It was possible someone might spot they were now closed, so she headed back inside and fished out the key from its new hiding place.
At the top of the tower everything remained exactly as they’d left it. In the downstairs room, James had pulled a linen cupboard across the doorway to the secret passage and today she would load it with paints, brushes, turpentine and rags, plus some of her books on art. And she’d ask Aldo to carry her two easels, with the latest work in progress, right to the top. Thinking of her canvas reminded her that Lorenzo had not questioned her about it again. She hated that he knew she hadn’t taken the painting to be framed and that she’d lied to him. The only thing she could do was to own up to the truth, tell him about James, and she would, next time he was home. Lorenzo didn’t often push for answers about anything; he usually dropped something into the conversation, leaving it there until she was ready. She didn’t enjoy lying. She had told so many small lies, although most were lies of omission. But it was so easy to delude oneself, manipulate the story, believe the lie, save face. Especially now. It wasn’t even about pulling the wool over somebody else’s eyes when one’s own were so ready to be fooled. She comforted herself that at least her domestic lies had not been outright falsehoods.
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