“No, but I was hoping I could see Dr. Antinori.” But pamper me. Should anything happen. Send the book to my father in Florence. “I have brought him something from his son, Marco.”
“Just a moment. Please be seated,” the lady said as she opened the door to the left and disappeared. Ceseli put her satchel on the ground and sat down nervously. She wondered what Dr. Antinori would be like. He’s an expert on Renaissance gardens. He knows where every plant and tree come from, and what they can be used for.
The door opened immediately and Dr. Antonio Antinori came toward her, his hand outstretched in greeting. He looks remarkably like Marco, she thought as she stood and took his warm handshake. He was wearing a brown corduroy jacket with a green braided wool tie. His eyes were the same color as Marco’s were.
“I’m Ceseli Larson,” she began.
“I know who you are, my dear,” he interrupted. “I’m so pleased to meet you. I know how much my son cared for you. Please come in.”
She followed him into his office, where a large oak refectory table dominated the room and was heavily loaded with books and files. On it was a bronze candlestick lamp that cast deep shadows over the table. Ceseli took the seat in front of him.
“I’m so glad to meet you,” he smiled. “But then, I just said that.”
“I’ve brought you this,” Ceseli said, taking Marco’s brown leather book from her satchel. “I promised him that if anything were to happen to him that I would send it to you. I decided to come in person.”
“I’m so glad you did. Marco wrote us about you before he left Addis. Then we had a letter from his hospital unit.”
“He told me that Zeri had helped him send that letter. Bruno Zeri is a journalist with Corriere della Sera. He knew Marco, and of course liked him. Everybody did.”
“Mr. Zeri was here. About a week ago.”
Oh, thought Ceseli, that was nice of him.
“He told us he had burned his body on a pyre so that it would not be mutilated. My wife was thankful for that. May I call my wife and tell her you’re here? She would so like to meet you.”
“I don’t know,” Ceseli began, looking at her watch. It was 5:30. “I was planning on taking that night train to Geneva. My father died last year and I haven’t even been there yet.”
“Won’t you consider staying with us tonight and leaving tomorrow? We would appreciate it so much.”
“All right then, if you’re sure I won’t be a bother.”
“It won’t be any kind of bother, I assure you.”
“Then I’d like that very much.”
“If there’s any tree you associate with the hills of Tuscany, it’s the cypress,” the doctor said an hour later as they drove the small FIAT up the winding hillside the eight kilometers to Fiesole. “But they’re actually from Persia or Syria. Some say the Etruscans brought them here, but I think it was the Romans.”
“You see them in the background of so many Italian paintings,” Ceseli ventured, noticing the tall cylindrical trees that stood vigil over the lush land and intermingled with the white and pink oleanders.
“Do you know Florence?” Dr. Antinori asked as he changed gears on the small car.
“I was here with my father when I was twelve. It was for a conference on art.”
“In 1923 there was a week-long symposium on Tuscan art and archaeology.”
“That may have been it, but I’m not sure.”
“It drew experts from around the world.”
“My father was an expert on stolen art, particularly archaeology. That’s where my interest came from. He and I were going to Ethiopia together, but then he died and I went alone.”
“I see. Fiesole is older than Florence, you know,” he continued as they drove up into the hills above the city. “It was an Etruscan town. We like it because we have a wonderful view of the city and enough land to grow all our own food. It’s more like a small farm.”
Ceseli looked at the narrow tightly curving road with its stonewalls on each side. Finally, they turned into a long driveway that led sharply up the hill toward a villa of stone and plaster painted the color of soft ochre.
As Dr. Antinori swung around to park, the heavy oak door opened and his wife came shyly forward. Ceseli wondered what to say, but Mrs. Antinori, who came to her kissing her warmly on both cheeks, quickly dispelled her apprehension. “Thank you for coming. It means so much to me to meet you,” she said warmly, standing back to look at Ceseli more closely.
Ceseli liked her immediately as she noticed the warmth in her hazel eyes. She had her Titian red hair pulled back into a chignon setting off the high cheekbones and light skin. She was tall and slender, and very friendly. “I don’t want to be a bother . . .” Ceseli began.
“You could never be a bother. Marco wrote that you were a very special young lady. We had a letter from him just before the accident. He hadn’t seen you or heard from you in months. But he was determined that he would find you after the war, even if it meant going to New York. He said that he might really like that. Something about eating Chinese food.”
Ceseli smiled, remembering their first discussion at the Italian compound. “There was no mail up there in Tigre. If I had known that he was so close that last week, I would have gone to see him earlier,” she said, realizing what a feeble excuse it must sound like. “The Emperor was preparing for a final battle, but it kept getting postponed.”
“Please, come in, or would you prefer to have some tea in the garden?”
“Whatever is best for you.”
“Then first come inside. Paolo and Chiara will want to meet you. She’s just finishing her homework and Paolo is most likely kicking his soccer ball near the barn. I’ll call him.”
She turned, and Ceseli and Dr. Antinori followed her into the large entranceway with its terracotta tiles and startling white walls. They walked through the formal living room to a large kitchen in the rear. The door to the garden was open and she could see the olive trees with their gnarled trunks just on the other side of the bricked garden.
A long-legged shy thirteen-year-old came to her, holding out her hand. Ceseli took it as she studied Marco’s sister. She was very slight, with her massive curly red hair held back behind her head, and penetrating blue eyes from among light lashed eyes and freckles.
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Chiara said in English, shyly.
“And I’m pleased to meet you too. You go to the British School?” Ceseli asked, holding her hand. “Your English is so good.”
“Yes. Marco went there too, you know.”
“Yes. He told me that when we first met on the train to Addis.”
“Was it scary being in Ethiopia all alone?” Chiara asked, quietly.
“No, not really. Of course it’s very different than being in Florence, but all the people there are very kind, and very gentle. And Marco took care of me. And there was a friend of my fathers who is the American Minister there. I lived in the American compound with tortoises as big as this,” she said, holding out her arms to give the young girl an idea of their size.
“Really that big?” Paolo interrupted, smiling. Ceseli noticed the same mischievous eyes. “You’re joking aren’t you?”
“No, really.” Ceseli thought about mentioning the hyenas, but decided not to.
“Marco said he’d invite me when the war was over. He liked it very much.” Paolo smiled, and as she looked at him she was surprised at the family resemblance.
“Yes, he did. And the people liked him tremendously,” she smiled, keeping the young boy’s eyes. “You would have liked it too.”
“Perhaps we should have some tea,” Mrs. Antinori said, inviting them into the garden.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” Ceseli added, following them. Their talk continued through tea, and through a delicious dinner that was preceded by small Tuscan crostini made from olive paste and mashed chicken livers.
“Marco told me you were a wonderful cook,” Ceseli said as they finished
. “That the key to your success was that all the ingredients were fresh.”
“Marco was a wonderful flatterer,” his mother smiled. “He was a good cook too.”
“Yes, he certainly was.”
“Ceseli,” Dr. Antinori began gently, “Mr. Zeri told us that Marco died in a bombing raid by our own Air Force against the Red Cross unit where he was serving. Is that true? It seems hard to believe, even of the Fascists.”
“But that is exactly what happened. I was there when it happened. Did Bruno Zeri tell you that Marco saved my life?”
“He did.”
“Marco was protecting my body with his. He took the bullets I would have taken. Marco said the planes flew over every day. But that morning they must have had different orders. The tent was the direct target. The planes banked and came back. They were making sure nobody survived. After I knew Marco was dead, I ran down the hill and hid in a cave. Even if I had survived because of Marco, I would be dead if I were still on that plateau,” she said as tears began to slowly crawl out of her lids. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping them away. “I wouldn’t have lived if he hadn’t done that.”
Ceseli reached to her neck and released the thin gold chain with its medal of St. Mary of the Flowers. She handed it across the table to Mrs. Antinori. “I have brought this to you. He wore it every day. He gave it to me, as a loan, the night before he died.”
“We gave it to him for his First Communion,” she said, fingering the medal. “It’s the patron saint of Florence. Even then he wanted to be a doctor. It was meant to keep him safe,” she smiled wistfully. “You must keep it, Ceseli,” she said, handing it back across the table. “I’m sure that is what our son would have wanted.” Mrs. Antinori kissed it softly and handed the chain back to Ceseli.
“Then I would be honored to have it. I’ll wear it next to my father’s dog tag. I loved them both very much.”
CHAPTER 60
CESELI TURNED THE KEY in the lock and quietly pushed the door open. She knew she was not prepared for the flood of emotions that poured out as she walked into her father’s Geneva apartment.
She went to the large French window and pulled open the doors. Outside, the Jura Mountains were green with their white peaks. It looks like the photo in some calendar of Swiss vacations, she thought looking out across the lake. Walking out onto the wide balcony, she looked below her at the bustling Quai des Bergue and down the broad avenue to the illuminated Palais des Nations, the headquarters of the League of Nations.
Slowly, she retraced her steps coming back into the living room. All the furniture was clothed in white cotton sheets. She removed them. She took the key and stopped to wind the grandfather clock. Next to the fireplace was the huge brown leather stuffed pig she remembered buying with her father in London. How many years ago, she thought. Slowly she walked around the room, touching the mantelpiece, rearranging the small Etruscan statuettes they had bought at Cerveteri in Italy. There’s certainly a lot of dust, a year’s dust, she thought rubbing her hand over the mantel. She must ask Madame Sorell to come and clean.
She dragged her trunk down the hall to her bedroom. She opened the window to get rid of the smell of must. Not being able to settle down, she walked back to the living room to her father’s favorite blue leather chair next to the fireplace. A fire was set, but it wasn’t cold enough to need it. Next to the chair on a small piecrust table was a copy of Dicken’s Tale of Two Cities, under it was the Hounds of the Baskervilles. How ironic, she thought, briefly remembering the conversation with Bruno Zeri. I wonder what has happened to him, she thought, putting her head back against the leather chair and closing her eyes.
A loud ringing of the doorbell drew her back to reality. She went to the door peeping through the little hole. She opened it, flinging it wide. “Standish? How did you find me?”
“Surprisingly easy. How are you?” he said, coming in. Ceseli noticed there was someone else on the stairwell.
“Zeri?”
“Can I come in?” the journalist asked politely, with his unlit Toscani dangling from the side of his mouth.
“Yes. Of course.”
The two men followed her into the living room and took seats in front of her.
“Is there something wrong?” she asked, looking from one to the other.
“There is plenty wrong,” Zeri said quietly. He was silent for a minute watching the curling smoke rise from his cigar.
“I thought you were in Ethiopia?”
“I was, but when Badoglio returned to Italy I came with him. He was already tired of being the viceroy of Ethiopia. He wanted to relish in his glory in Italy. Anyhow, my assignment was over. The war was over.”
“Who replaced him?”
“Graziani? I’m sorry for the Ethiopians. He’s a butcher.”
Ceseli looked at him quizzically. “You went to see Marco’s family. That was very nice of you.”
“I felt it was my duty. I liked and respected Marco. I wish there were more like him. I’m afraid there won’t be for a very long time. You have my music don’t you?”
“You said to guard them with my life.”
“Those little ditties document how the Italians used mustard gas and just how much of it, and when.”
“You did it. You took sides.”
Zeri shrugged. “Did you take pictures all through the war?”
Ceseli hesitated, looking at him more carefully. “Yes.”
“Did they come out well?”
“Yes. Of course!”
“May I see them?”
“Could you tell me what this is all about?”
“You’ll have to trust me. You don’t like that, but you trusted me once.”
“You saved my life.”
“Several people contributed. Do you still think of me as the enemy?”
Ceseli shook her head.
“That’s good, because this time, I’m going to have to trust you,” Bruno said, putting his hand into his inner jacket pocket and taking out some more sheets of music.
“Look here,” he said, opening one of the pages and handing it to her. “I’m glad I lived to do this. It took twenty-three thousand shells and four hundred tons of high explosives to defeat Mulugeta at Amba Aradam. Some seventy-three tons of high explosives at Lake Ashangi. That doesn’t mention the mustard gas. If your photos are as good as they should be, I think we have proof of these atrocities.”
“You’ve documented this?” Ceseli looked at him, finally understanding.
“You were right. It is Zeus or Hera,” he smiled, cynically. “But these facts would be useless without your photos.”
Ceseli got up and walked into the bedroom returning with several large envelopes. “The first are from Dessie. The first bombing. December 6, 1935. They’re all numbered and cataloged,” she said, handing the envelope to Bruno.
Standish looked across Zeri’s shoulder as he went slowly through the photographs. He put a few aside. Most of them were of horribly disfigured people. In all the months he had been with Badoglio’s forces, he had none like these. That was because Ceseli had been on the receiving end of the bombs and poisonous gases.
“Ceseli,” Standish interrupted. “How did you bring out all these photos? I know you had a few in your satchel, but there are so many of them.”
Ceseli hesitated for a moment. “I had Daniele construct a false bottom for my trunk.”
Standish studied her for a moment. “I’m not saying I don’t approve that you got them out. But have you heard about diplomatic immunity? You were traveling as if you were Warren’s family.” He paused, shaking his head. “Thankfully you didn’t get caught. It could have been quite an incident.”
“I guess that was of such a secondary consequence I didn’t give it much thought. My first and foremost thought was to get these photos out. My trunk never left my side.”
“Any of civilians?” Zeri asked.
“Plenty,” she answered, returning with another larger envelope full of other photos. Th
e obelisk. The boy on the obelisk. The lioness frieze she planned to use for her dissertation. She handed them to Zeri and sat down.
“It will be dangerous for you, won’t it?” Standish asked.
“I thrive on danger. But this is a war we can win. It may take a long time, but we can win.”
“I’ll do anything I can to help you,” Ceseli said, vehemently.
The three of them nodded in commitment.
CHAPTER 61
WHAT SEEMED LIKE HALF the population of Geneva was gathered around the white marble League of Nations building. It was just before 5 p.m. on June 30, 1936.
In 1771, Marquis Masson de Pezay warned his countrymen not to complain of mountains and rocks. The olive tree would flourish perennially. He expressed his hope that a “society of nations” would assemble within its frontiers. Some one hundred fifty years later his prophesy was realized when the League of Nations chose Geneva for its headquarters. Now, Geneva was to play its most dismal moment in history to date.
Ceseli looked across the wide glimmering waters of Lake Geneva. The emperor’s boat-taxi was approaching. The cheering for the tiny monarch reached a crescendo as he stepped off the boat-taxi, carefully dressed in a voluminous black cloak over a white tunic. Standing on tiptoes, Ceseli was just able to see Yifru as he followed Haile Sellassie into the building.
Ceseli fought her way through the crowd and hurried up the staircase to the visitor’s gallery. Many of the emperor’s in-exile government were already there. Taking her assigned seat, she looked down noticing that by the time the emperor was led into the large general assembly hall, the Eighteenth Plenary Session of the Assembly had already started. Britain’s Anthony Eden, the temporary chairman of the League, was making preliminary announcements.
The early minutes of the session were devoted to a long statement from Italy’s newly appointed foreign minister, Count Galeazzo Ciano, Mussolini’s son-in-law. The letter had been written with the intention of preempting any charges that the Emperor Haile Sellassie might make in his speech.
“May I sit here?” Bruno Zeri asked.
“You’re not sitting in the press section?” Ceseli asked as he struggled to get through the narrow aisle.
Love in the Land of Barefoot Soldiers Page 26
