by Damien Lewis
For a brief period life took on an easy pace for Paterson. While they weren’t exactly dating, there was a wonderful flirtation going on between him and Gabi, which lifted his spirits enormously. In return, the teenager was clearly enjoying her time with a young, good-looking and dashing foreigner. Perhaps fortuitously, Signor Rossi’s escape organisation began to move into action. Word reached Paterson and Harris of groups of escaped POWs hiding out in the hills, sheltering with friendly families.
Harris and Paterson travelled to their hideouts. Once there, they attempted to persuade the POWs to escape across the border. Many had built up relationships with their hosts, and were reluctant to leave, believing the Allies would soon liberate all of Italy. Paterson had to disabuse them of that fact. The Allied frontline was still many hundreds of miles away. Fighting had proven fierce, and they were unlikely to reach the north of Italy for at least a year. The chances of the fugitives being caught were high, and the families sheltering them would very likely be shot. Fortunately, in light of the dire consequences for their hosts, most agreed to make a break for Switzerland.
Several weeks into their escape work, Paterson and Harris had assisted dozens of prisoners to cross the border, but there were still more. Reports reached them of a group of partisans headquartered in the mountains, which had been embroiled in a major battle with the Germans. Word was that many of the partisans were actually escaped POWs. Leaving Harris to liaise with other escapees, Paterson and a local guide hurried into the hills, but the only evidence of the partisans they found was a helmet with a bullet hole, hundreds of empty bullet cases, plus a machine-gun pit with a smashed-up weapon.
Unable to find any of the partisans, they returned to the Riccinis. By the time they reached the farmhouse it was dark and raining. As they approached, something made Paterson stop. There were no lights showing in the front room. The Italian guide offered to investigate, suggesting that Paterson wait in the bushes to see what transpired.
As Paterson looked on, worried for his friends, the guide knocked. Suddenly, the door was flung open and the guide was ordered inside at gunpoint. Paterson froze. Within minutes, the door opened and the guide was shoved out again. Paterson watched him head back down the drive. After a few moments, he crept out of the bushes, before hurrying to catch up. It turned out that the Questura had seized the Riccinis, but Gabi had managed to get away. There was no sign of Harris anywhere.
In due course Paterson learned that both Gabi and Harris had had forewarning and had managed to slip away. They most likely had headed for Milan. With no viable base for his escape network any more, Paterson decided to follow. He made his way to Signor Rossi’s house, where he recounted the entire story. Signor Rossi didn’t think the Riccinis were in any great danger, since the Questura had failed to seize the real evidence – Paterson and Harris.
‘But what now?’ Paterson asked.
Many British soldiers still remained in the villages, Signor Rossi explained. He’d like to get them out before the winter set in. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘I heard from your friend Gabi. She is very worried about you and I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear that you’re safe.’
Agreeing to stay and help, Paterson moved in with an elderly couple who were caretakers at a local factory. They seemed quiet but friendly, and sympathetic to the cause. The next evening, there was a knock at the door. Paterson tensed, as the woman of the house went to answer. He heard a girl’s voice at the door. Moments later Paterson found a sobbing Gabi hugging him, her head buried in his chest. The elderly woman quietly took her leave, shutting the door gently behind her.
‘Thank goodness you’re safe,’ Gabi whispered. ‘Hold me.’
Paterson pulled her close and moments later they kissed. Aware of the dangers their attachment posed, Paterson insisted they would have to say their goodbyes, at least for now.
If the Questura connected Gabi to him, they would arrest her, and he couldn’t bear that. Eventually, Gabi accepted that he was right. They kissed each other goodbye, and Paterson watched as Gabi walked away. It was the last that he would ever see of her.
The following day, Paterson was given a tour of Milan to acquaint himself with the layout of the city. He would need to familiarise himself with it, especially as he would very likely be working alone now. They covered all the sights: the grand La Scala opera house; the Piazza del Duomo, Milan’s beautiful and historic city square; plus the Gestapo headquarters and the central police station. Finally, they arrived at a forbidding mass of interconnected buildings, protected by a high stone wall and towers – San Vittore prison.
‘If you get taken there, you’ve had it,’ Paterson was warned.
Over the coming weeks, he managed to get a number of Allied prisoners smuggled over the border, but one day he was travelling back from Lake Como on the train when it pulled to an unexpected halt. Leaning out of the window, Paterson could see a group of black-shirted Fascist Youth – the notorious Milizia Volontaria per la Sicurezza Nazionale, more commonly known as the ‘Blackshirts’ – lining up to board the train.
‘Identity check!’ shouted one.
Paterson froze. He had no such ID card. His only chance was to get off and somehow get away. Hurrying back down the train, he searched for an unguarded door, but the Fascist Youth were everywhere. Pushing his way along the crowded aisle, a Blackshirt demanded he show his ID. Paterson refused, saying he’d already presented it and was in a hurry. But just as he figured he’d managed to bluff his way through, another more authoritative voice rang out.
‘Just a moment, Signore.’ A middle-aged, balding man in a suit blocked Paterson’s way. ‘I am an officer of the Questura. You must produce your identity card.’
Within moments the Blackshirts had surrounded him. ‘All right, all right,’ Paterson declared. ‘I haven’t got an ID card because I’m an escaped British officer.’
There was a moment’s stunned silence, before the Blackshirts hurled themselves upon him, wrestling him to the ground. Paterson was dragged off the train and frogmarched to the local barracks. After questioning by the Questura, to which Paterson’s only answer was ‘I can’t remember,’ he was led to San Vittore prison, its dark, menacing walls and towers rising before him.
There, Paterson was received by two SS men, who manhandled him through a series of iron doors, before shoving him into a cell, the heavy door being firmly bolted behind. After a night of broken sleep, Paterson awoke to a sparse meal of watery soup and a small dry roll. Shortly, two men arrived claiming to be Gestapo. They marched Paterson out of the prison and down the street to the Gestapo headquarters. Inside, the questioning began and it proved relentless.
‘How did you escape?’
‘Who has helped you?’
‘Where have you been living?’
‘Who gave you clothes and money?’
‘Have you been spying and passing information to your colleagues in Switzerland?’
Paterson knew that if he cracked and revealed any details of what he had been up to, his brave Italian helpers would pay with their lives. For hours on end, he endured the interrogation, sticking rigidly to his cover – that ever since his escape he had wandered the Italian countryside, getting help from locals, none of whose names he could remember – despite the repeated threats that he would be shot as a spy.
San Vittore prison was renowned for being escape-proof and Paterson could see why. Built in the form of a star, it had six cell blocks, each four storeys high. Exercise courtyards lay between the blocks, at the end of which rose a twelve-foot-high wall. A gravel road ran around the entire cell-block complex, with another, higher wall enclosing that. Soldiers with machine-guns lined its outer perimeter. While the guards were mostly Italian, those in charge – Gestapo and SS officers – were German. According to Paterson’s fellow prisoners, they were ‘sadistic monsters’. Two men in particular, Sergeant Major Schwartz and his assistant, Corporal Franz,
were the masters of brutality. It wasn’t long before Paterson saw this with his own eyes.
Prisoners who stepped out of line were made to crawl up and down the exercise yard on their elbows and knees, until their clothing was ripped and their skin bleeding and raw. If anyone spilt anything, Sergeant Major Schwartz would force them to lick it up with their tongue, relishing their pain and discomfiture. When Sergeant Major Schwartz tired of his brutal punishments, his sidekick, Corporal Franz, would turn on a prisoner, treating him like a human football, kicking him until he lost consciousness.
Paterson was set to work changing lice-ridden blankets and cleaning out cells. He tried to keep his head down and to remain unnoticed by the guards, but some things he witnessed were almost beyond his capacity to endure. There were men, women and children – whole families – held at San Vittore, but only temporarily. Paterson learned that they were Jews, and that they were bound for the Mauthausen concentration camp complex, in Austria.
Moved almost to tears by the plight of these families, Paterson risked passing words of encouragement to them, while trying to share what little food he could and even though he was always hungry. Witnessing their bitter plight fuelled his own thoughts of escape. If he could only get away, he could take the fight to the Nazi enemy once again – those who were responsible for perpetrating such unspeakable atrocities. But after much watchfulness and deliberation, he realised all his schemes were hopeless. San Vittore did indeed appear to be escape-proof. He resolved that his only purpose had to be to stay alive and to remain sane for long enough to see an end to the war.
The seasons passed – winter bleeding into spring. It brought little relief for those locked up in San Vittore. As the Allied forces advanced north through Italy, the savagery of the German guards increased, with some prisoners being driven to a local quarry and shot out of hand.
Then, one early afternoon in June 1944, Paterson caught sight of someone he had hoped never to see inside the prison walls: it was Signor Rossi, the mastermind of the Milan escape network. Sandwiched between two thickset guards, the slightly built figure was hustled into an isolation cell. Paterson’s heart sank. Desperately hoping to speak with Signor Rossi, he knew he would have to wait for the right moment.
The next morning, he learned that Signor Rossi had been taken for interrogation. Paterson hoped that if the Gestapo could pin nothing on him, he might be transferred into a cell along with the rest of them, but his interrogation and isolation continued for many days. Paterson had almost given up hope of seeing his friend again, when Signor Rossi appeared. It seemed that he had been given some of the same menial duties as Paterson, which placed them in the same part of the prison.
Finding themselves in an empty cell, they seized the chance to exchange a few words. It turned out that Signor Rossi had been sold out to the Gestapo by a supposed friend. They had nothing on him, barring a report that he had recently compiled, listing the number of POWs that he had helped escape.
‘Nearly three thousand,’ he whispered, proudly. ‘They got nothing from me despite all their questioning.’
Paterson was consumed by worry for his friend. He asked what would happen to him now. ‘I’ll appear before a court-martial, and then most likely be shot or, if I’m lucky, locked up.’
Horrified, Paterson was determined to do something to help, despite the fact that the prison seemed escape-proof.
‘There is always a way out if you have money, George,’ Signor Rossi reassured him. ‘One of the warders is being bribed and he’ll help us escape. Plus, I want to take another three men, who were also working with me. If things go to plan, we could all be out in a week.’
Paterson could barely believe his ears. It was five days before he and Rossi spoke again. It was in the exercise yard, and Signor Rossi was casually leaning against a wall, when he beckoned Paterson over.
‘Have you still got your civilian clothes?’ he whispered.
‘I have. They’re in my cell.’
‘Excellent. Here’s what we’re going to do.’
Signor Rossi explained that they would make their escape attempt during the guards’ siesta that very day. They would dress in their civilian clothing, but with their prison overalls thrown over the top. They would carry blankets to give the impression that they were going about their menial duties, and would leave the cell block, passing through a courtyard and a gate, which would have been left open. Right then they would be positioned between the two security walls.
‘Are you with me so far?’ Rossi quizzed.
Paterson nodded and Rossi continued. To their right, about fifty yards away, would be a shed. Inside they would remove their prison overalls. When they came out they would find a door in the wall that was always kept locked, which meant it was never guarded. A duplicate key had been made by the warder, the man that Signor Rossi had bribed. With that they would unlock the door and slip through, but the last escapee had to close the door and lock it after him. That way, they would hide the means of their escape. The door led onto the open street, where they must get away quickly and hide.
There was one last detail, Signore Rossi explained: they would have to make their escapes one by one, for a crowd of prisoners would be sure to attract the attention of the guards. Paterson returned to his cell buzzing with excitement, but at the same time he was acutely aware of what would happen if they failed. Sergeant Major Schwartz and Corporal Franz would escort them to the quarry and deliver a bullet to each of their heads. The minutes seemed to drag by, as he rehearsed the plan over and over again in his head. Finally, it was time.
Changing into his civilian clothes, he pulled his prison overalls on top, grabbed a stack of dirty blankets and set off for the designated cell block. Guards lined the corridors, but they were either dozing or reading – siesta time – and Paterson’s presence went unnoticed. As he crossed the first courtyard, he began to feel hot and sweaty, sensing the eyes that were tracking him from the guard towers above. Reaching the far side, he opened the door and slipped into the neighbouring cell block. A guard sat smoking and their eyes met, but the bundle of blankets must have convinced him that Paterson was going about his menial duties, for the bored guard looked the other way.
Paterson reached the end of the corridor, and dropped the blankets into one of the latrines, before exiting through a side door into the final courtyard. There, across the open space, lay an open gate. Trying not to run, he forced himself to keep at a steady and relaxed-looking pace. He slipped through the gate and was now on the gravel road lying between the perimeter walls. Over on the right, fifty yards away was the shed.
He snatched a glance at the sentries above: they seemed not to have noticed his presence. Counting the paces to the shed, and expecting a challenge to ring out at any moment, he reached it and slipped inside. Sweating and with his heart pounding, Paterson ripped off his prison overalls. Reshaping the fedora hat that he had hidden under one arm, he hesitated for just a moment. Would he make it those last few steps to freedom? What if a guard spotted him and opened fire?
Driving the doubts from his mind, he slipped out of the shed and took a few steps around the corner. There was the door that Signor Rossi had assured him would be left unguarded and unlocked. Turning the handle, he breathed a sigh of relief when the catch clicked and the door swung open. Stepping through and closing it behind him, Paterson found himself on the far side of the prison walls. Freedom beckoned. He heard a tram rattling towards him. If he could reach that, his getaway would be all but guaranteed.
Suddenly, Paterson’s stomach gave a horrible lurch. Coming around the corner was the stocky figure of one of Corporal Franz’s henchmen, with whom Paterson had already had several bruising encounters. He could not turn away, for fear he’d raise the man’s suspicions. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out.
Pulling his hat brim low, Paterson stepped straight ahead. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the g
uard glance at him, but Paterson strode purposefully around the corner and was gone. With the nearest watchtower well behind him now, Paterson headed for the tram stop. The tram seemed to move at a snail’s pace, creeping closer by the second. Moments later, Paterson stepped aboard, the bell jangled and they were off.
Incredibly, Paterson had just broken out of the supposedly escape-proof San Vittore prison in Milan.
He made his way to Maria Resta’s apartment, where he knocked tentatively. The door opened and she rushed to embrace him. ‘It’s so good to see you, Giorgio.’
Paterson related his story to Maria and her husband, while he feasted on a meal of spaghetti, cheese, fruit and wine. Later that night he awoke, his stomach in spasms. After the near starvation of the prison rations, he was unaccustomed to such rich food. Maria Resta’s news had been hugely encouraging. Like Paterson, Signor Rossi had also escaped. He planned to head for Switzerland and was adamant that Paterson should do the same. Mentally and physically exhausted, Paterson accepted that this was the only sensible option, for he longed to be back in Britain. He had been variously held captive or on the run for three and a half years now, and he hungered for a little security and safety.
That afternoon, he ventured out onto the streets of Milan, allowing Maria Resta to take him to a local photographer, to obtain a passport-sized photo for his identity card. Fearful that he would be recaptured, Paterson did his best to steady his nerves. The plan was for a Milanese fireman, known only as ‘Orlando’, to accompany Paterson as far as Lake Como, just short of the border, from where a local guide would lead him across the frontier.
At noon the following day, Maria Resta took Paterson to the fire station where Orlando was waiting. After bidding a heartfelt farewell, Paterson followed Orlando to a small room at the back, where he was given a fireman’s uniform to change into. With his newly forged ID card to hand, Paterson mounted a fire engine alongside Orlando, and they set off for a small farmhouse in the vicinity of Lake Como.
