Legacy of Sorrows

by Roberto Buonaccorsi

  When they were both spent, they lay quietly in each other’s arms, softly caressing and enjoying the moment. They lay together in love, laughing, singing, enjoying the suns gentle rays caress them with its warm embrace.

  Eventually, they dressed and just as they were preparing to leave, the sound of a rifle shot rang out, shattering the silence and changing their mood to one of fear. The round had penetrated the Oak tree beside Anna just as she had bent down for her shoe. They dived for the ground and sought cover.

  Chapter 14

  The black Alfa Romeo pulled into the small car park in Borgo a Mozzano a few minutes after Anna’s Fiat. The driver got out carrying a small holdall and headed at a brisk pace for the couple ahead who were steadily disappearing into the distance. He watched them cross the Devil’s Bridge and then followed them over. He waited at the foot of the hillside until he saw which direction they were headed and took a parallel route, taking great care to keep out of sight. He slowly climbed higher than his prey until he reached a vantage point looking down on them.

  When the couple stopped at the big Oak tree, he positioned himself so that he could see what they were doing and have a clear line of fire. He quickly removed an M16 Carbine from his holdall and assembled it. The magazine was checked for rounds and fitted with a soft metallic click into the rifle. The same with the telescopic sight.

  He watched intently as they opened a briefcase to read some of the contents. He was patient. He didn’t want to make his move until he was convinced that they had retrieved everything that was hidden. He saw them make love through the telescopic lens and convinced himself it was his professionalism that kept his focus on them.

  When he eventually saw them prepare to leave with the briefcase he took careful aim and slowly squeezed the trigger. Just at that moment, Anna had bent down and the shot that was intended for her head missed.

  He quickly aimed again and fired once more.

  ‘He’s high up over to your left,’ Marco called out from his position. As soon as the first shot was fired, they hit the ground and pulled out their weapons. He quickly realised that the shooter had the advantage of a higher position so ground cover was essential. Marco’s old infantry training in the Paras kicked in, and he was pleased to see that Anna was lying off to his right, hidden in the undergrowth, with her weapon pointing in the direction of their assailant. ‘Don’t fire unless you have something to shoot at Anna. We need to conserve our ammunition.’

  More shots rang out and the ground near Marco was disturbed by what seemed like angry wasps as the rounds hit the ground near him. He realised that the shooter couldn’t see them now, and was probably being guided by the sound of their voices. He attracted Anna’s attention with a thrown pebble, and motioned for her to be quiet. He made a circling motion with his hand, and Anna understood that he was going to try to circle around the shooter and surprise him from the side.

  He slowly crawled stealthily through the undergrowth until he came to a large tree. He used the width of the tree as a shield to hide himself from the shooter and slowly raised himself to his feet. He let off a few rounds in the shooters direction and was pleased to hear him curse out aloud in Italian. The shooter moved out slowly to higher ground until he had a better view of Marco’s position. He smiled as he partially saw Marco behind the tree loading his weapon. He took careful aim and fired at the restricted target.

  A burst of automatic fire, like dancing Bees, hit the surrounding area around Marco and he fell to the ground, clutching his left arm. As he lay there, he felt a searing pain fill his body. Blood spewed from the wound onto the ground. One of the rounds had hit him in his upper arm and gone straight through the flesh. He reached for his handkerchief and tried to stem the heavy flow of blood.

  Anna had seen him fall and was now trying to reach him. ‘Stay where you are, you’re safer there,’ he weakly called out. As if to emphasise the point, the shooter fired another burst of automatic fire at Marco. Marco kept his head down and wondered if they would get out of this alive. His arm was losing a lot of blood and he was starting to feel dizzy. He was still alert enough to hear a change to the sound of the gunfire before he lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 15

  Angelo Corti sat staring out of the window of his temporary home. He reflected on the turn of events that had led him to this point. The hostage situation had awakened a hidden strength in him that was almost like turning on a tap. He should not have involved his son in this mess. He felt that he should have seen it through as originally planned. Now his son could be in grave danger from these Red Brigade animals that would not hesitate to kill him, and were probably at this moment on his trail. He was unsettled at the prospect of his son facing the Red Brigade on his own.

  He went to his bedroom and took out a metal box, which he opened with a small key. Inside was a handgun, his service revolver, which had been presented to him by Mussolini himself when he had joined the Mosquatieri. He took it out and disassembled it into its component parts. He remembered a time when he could take it to bits blindfolded. He knew that if he spread the parts throughout his suitcase they wouldn’t be picked up by x-ray machines at the airport. The rounds he would keep in his possession as he had a metal pin in his left knee that always set off the alarm when he walked through the metal detector. He also had a letter from a medical specialist explaining this in more detail in case he was picked up. The letter hadn’t failed him yet.

  He went back downstairs and once more sat in his chair. He looked at his wife, ‘I’ll need to go to Italy and help him,’ he said aloud. Elizabeth stirred in her chair and replied, ‘is that wise Angelo? You’re not a young man anymore.’

  ‘Young man or not, my son needs help, and I can’t sit back knowing he’s in danger.’

  He rose from his chair and reached for the phone to book his flight.

  The light rain smirred the windscreen of Angelo’s hired Fiat as he drove away from Pisa Airport on the road to Lucca. He was heading for Marco’s hotel and he reckoned he should be there for mid-day. He hoped he was in time to accompany him to the site. Apart from wanting to help Marco, he was impatient to see the briefcase again. This damn briefcase, he thought, if only Mussolini had burned the letters instead of ordering Sergio to hide them.

  He had tried to phone Marco’s room at his hotel, but the receptionist had said he had gone out. I’ll try the hotel first, he thought, and if he isn’t there, I’ll go to the Carabinieri Station. He knew that Marco had been dealing with a SISI Agent from the Station, and he might be in time to catch him before he leaves.

  The road was familiar to him. Many times over the last twenty years, he had made this journey to inspect the briefcase, and each time he had thought the same: So many Italians had died for the ideals of fascism and communism, and today they are consigned to the fringes of the political arena. Not considered relevant by the majority of Italians and probably considered the last refuge of the fanatic and the zealot.

  He pulled the car up in front of the hotel entrance, and entered the hotel. He saw the reception desk in front of him and walked up to the desk.

  ‘Buon giorno, signore,’ said the young female receptionist. ‘May I help you.’

  ‘I would like to speak to Signor Corti in room 306 please.’

  The receptionist gave him a gleaming smile that made Angelo wish he were forty years younger. ‘I’m sorry signore, but Signor Corti left the hotel after breakfast this morning.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going,’ Angelo asked her.

  ‘Once again I’m sorry signore, he didn’t say where he was going.’

  Angelo thanked the receptionist, and left the hotel. He drove through Lucca to the Police Station and parked the car in the Parcheggio – the car park – behind the station. He entered the station and asked the duty officer if Signor Corti was in the station. ‘I’m sorry signore, I wouldn’t know.

  Angelo sighed, ‘would it be possible to tell Commandante Capaldi that Marco Corti’s father, Ang
elo Corti, would like to see him.’

  The Duty Officer recognised the name of ‘Corti,’ and knew he should notify the Commandante of his presence.

  ‘Take a seat signore and I’ll see if the Commandante can see you.’

  After some five minutes, Angelo Corti was asked into the Commandante’s office. Enzo Capaldi was certainly surprised to see him there. He shook his hand and invited him to take a seat. How can I help you signore?’ said Enzo, over a cloud a smoke. Angelo explained, ‘With all the events of the last few days I thought I would come over myself to see the briefcase being recovered.’ Enzo blew out a cloud of smoke before saying, ‘Your son and Anna left Lucca about ten minutes ago and from the information I have been given from their radio, they should be at the site by now.’ ‘Then I’ll try and meet them there Commandante, I really want to try and witness the briefcase being recovered. After all this time I just feel I would like to witness history being made.’

  Enzo looked at him with a strange sad look in his eyes. ‘History was made here a long time ago Angelo when our people killed each other without mercy.’ Angelo nodded his head in agreement. ‘Were you involved Commandante?’

  ‘Not at first. I was a police officer doing my duty for the whole community. It was after the war when I was asked to help collect the evidence of massacres carried out by the Germans that I felt the full force of the atrocities committed by them. I was involved in the investigation of war crimes at Monte Sole where the 16th Waffen SS under Major Walter Reder committed one of the biggest mass murders of civilians in the Italian war. Whole communities were wiped out as the SS searched for partisans in the hills. They rounded up women, children and infants, herded them into a walled cemetery, and machine-gunned them. They blew up barns full of people with hand grenades without mercy. He stopped for a moment, and gave a deep sigh. ‘Over eighteen hundred Italians were killed over three days. Thankfully most of the SS involved were brought to justice.’

  Angelo could feel the sadness of the moment, ‘there were things witnessed during the war that it’s best not to talk about. Some of my comrades in the Black Brigades were captured near Trieste by the Yugoslav partisans, the Titoists. They were tied with a long rope around their necks to other suspected fascists and their families, including women and children. They were then marched through the snow and ice, up in the mountains, until they came to some deep ravines. The partisans shot the first person, who fell down the ravine and the rest, screaming in fear, were pulled after him to their death. There was no need for this sort of barbaric action. They could have killed them, if they had to, by bullet. I understand that some two hundred Italians were killed. It’s now up to our generation to make sure that this doesn’t happen again.’

  Enzo pursed his lips, ‘these letters have already been the catalyst for death. It has even stretched its hand into my police cells.’

  He got up from his seat and approached Angelo. ‘I hope that these letters don’t act as the catalyst for further violence in Italy.’ Angelo agreed, ’that’s why it’s important that they don’t fall into the wrong hands.’ Together they walked to the door, two old men, full of memories and respect for each other.

  During the car journey, they again discussed their respective roles in the war and Angelo was pleasantly surprised to find out that Enzo, although not a fascist then, had strong sympathies for their cause. ‘I have moderated my views a little now to encompass the modern era, but I am still right wing at heart,’ said a talkative Enzo, blowing clouds of smoke from the ever present cigarette dangling from his mouth.

  Eventually they reached the small car park at Borgo a Mozzano, where they left their car. As they were crossing the bridge, they heard gunfire coming from the woods ahead. ‘That’s not the sound of a hunter’s weapon,’ said Enzo, it definitely sounds like an M16 Carbine.’ ‘Let’s get up there and find out what’s happening,’ an agitated Angelo said. They moved as fast as they could up the wooded slope until they were close to the source of the gunfire. The climb had taken its toll on the two older men and they rested for a moment to recover their breath. Angelo looked over at Enzo’s ashen coloured face and heavy breathing with some concern, ‘maybe it’s time to stop the cigarettes before they stop you.’ Enzo looked at him with disdain, pulled a cigarette from a pack and placed it between his lips. ‘I’ll light it later,’ he said in short gasps.

  They continued up the slope with caution until they could see someone in a prime position firing down on two figures lying down flat in the undergrowth. Enzo drew his weapon and moved stealthily forward towards the shooter. ‘Stay here Angelo, you don’t have a weapon.’ Angelo smiled and pulled out of his anorak pocket the old Beretta, ‘this is my service revolver and I’ve kept it in good condition.’ ‘You can charge me later for not having a licence for it, but right now I’m going to help my boy.’ Enzo saw there was no way he was going to stop him helping, so he merely said,’ Take my lead Angelo, okay?’

  They moved forward in an open formation towards the shooter so that they were converging in on each side of him and when Enzo thought they were in a good position and close enough, he called out, ‘police, cease firing and throw down your weapon.’ The shooter seemed to freeze when he heard Enzo’s voice. Enzo repeated, ‘if you don’t put down your weapon we will open fire.’

  The shooter knew he was cornered., trapped. All his careful planning had come to this moment. Was that the voice of Enzo Capaldi shouting on him from behind? What irony, he thought, the fat man himself. Realising the impossible position he was in he knew he had no choice but to surrender to the police. He also decided to drop his veneer of urban charm and good manners that had served him well, and be the man he knew he was.

  The shooter laid his rifle on the ground, and waited on his next instructions. ‘Stand up slowly and raise your hands above your head now.’ The shooter stood up slowly and did as he was told. ‘Now, turn and face me,’ said Enzo, keeping his gun trained on him. The shooter hesitated at first, and then slowly turned to face the two men. Angelo let out a gasp of astonishment as he recognised the man in front of him; Carlo Togneri.

  Enzo also recognised Carlo. At first they were too taken aback to speak, until eventually Angelo said, ‘Why Carlo? You of all people, you were my old friend.’ Carlo spat at the ground. His eyes were ablaze with a fanatical zeal that was far removed from his usual calm appearance. ‘What do you know of friendship, you and your fascist ways of old? Friendship to you is leaving your country when it desperately needed your help in rebuilding it from the ruins of your fascist war. You thought of your own needs over those of your country. Even you Enzo, after the war you scorned the call of the people for a more just society, and became an American lackey in their police state, so don’t speak to me of friendship.’ An astonished Angelo and Enzo listened to the deranged tirade in silence. Carlo was obviously extremely unbalanced and very dangerous.

  Carlo continued, ‘and what of the friendship displayed by the German and Fascist forces in the north of Italy with over seven hundred separate massacres of Italians to their name. You seem to forget as the Allies fought the Germans that we had a bloody civil war here at the same time with countless thousands killed or starved to death.’

  Angelo shook his head in desperation; He saw that there was no reasoning with this man, who was very clearly deranged. ‘There was brutality on both sides Carlo, there are only victims in war and today Italy needs healing from those memories if we are to be a united nation.’

  Enzo, having recovered from his shock of seeing Carlo, moved forward to handcuff him and just at that moment his foot caught in a tree stump in the undergrowth. He lost his balance for a second, but this was all the time Carlo needed. For such a big man he moved forward with tremendous speed and agility. He threw himself at Enzo and grabbed his gun arm. Enzo tried to fight back but he still wasn’t recovered from his climb up the hillside. They wrestled for a few moments until Carlo seized Enzo’s pistol and pulled him in front of him as a shield. ‘Drop your we
apon Angelo;’ he shouted, holding the pistol to Enzo’s head. ‘I will have no hesitation in shooting Enzo if I have to.’ Angelo, who all this time had been trying to line up a shot, quickly weighed up the situation. If he dropped his weapon, Carlo would probably kill them both. If he didn’t, then Carlo would kill Enzo. He dropped his weapon on the ground and raised his arms above his head, hoping for an opportunity to overpower him.

  Carlo knew that if he wanted to escape without any pursuit he would have to kill the two men in front of him. He aimed his pistol at Angelo. ‘Sorry Angelo’ he said with mock sadness, ‘I wish it could be otherwise.’ He cocked the pistol and his finger put pressure on the trigger.

  A shot rang out and Carlo dropped to the ground with a large hole appearing to grow in his chest and a surprised look on his face. Angelo looked down at Carlo, marvelling at the bloodstain spreading slowly across his body. ‘What happened, who shot him?’ He said in amazement.