by Derek Hansen
Dedication
For Carole
Acknowledgements
How easy writing a novel would be if there were no need for research, no verification of facts and no acknowledgement of history. This story would never have been written but for the generous assistance of others. My wife and researcher, to whom this book is dedicated, bore the main burden and I thank her for all the trips to the libraries and the backbreaking loads of books she staggered home with. I am also indebted to Tommy Tomasi, one-time soldier with the Alpini and partisans, for sharing his knowledge and experiences; Wolfgang Bose, Alex Popov, Ian Hart and Ira Kowalski for the specialist knowledge they provided; Rob Kelly for his art direction; and Phil Bellamy. Finally, thanks to fellow author Bryce Courtenay, who gives more encouragement than a stadium filled with cheerleaders.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
FIRST THURSDAY
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
SECOND THURSDAY
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
THIRD THURSDAY
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
FOURTH THURSDAY
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
FIFTH THURSDAY
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
SIXTH THURSDAY
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
SEVENTH THURSDAY
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Excerpt from Lunch with the Generals
Excerpt from Lunch with the Stationmaster
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Derek Hansen
Copyright
FIRST THURSDAY
Gancio watched for the four men as he began seating the early arrivals, mostly junior executives and secretaries whose time was limited. Anyone who knew him would have found him unusually subdued. He was a big man who dominated the restaurant with his size, his booming voice and his extravagant mannerisms. But not today. Nobody could find him remotely entertaining—in fact, they’d probably dismiss him as morose.
Gancio was worried and made no attempt to hide his concern. He wasn’t sure the four men would come. He cursed Ramon, the blind Argentinian. No one had rung to cancel but, then again, who among them would have taken it upon himself to ring? He glanced across at the empty table. Ramon would come, he was certain of that. But if he was left to sit alone it would be unbearable. It would be an indictment, a condemnation of both Ramon’s character and his storytelling ability. It would mean he had lost the game, his friends and their respect forever.
For four years they’d met without fail to share their passion for storytelling. But it was more than that. It was a contest of wit and intelligence, of put-downs, insults and clever deceit. As in all games where no quarter is given, tempers sometimes became inflamed. But their ability to incite was more than matched by a will and determination always to part as friends, and the tension served only to heighten their enjoyment. But Ramon had changed all that.
‘Bloody fool,’ Gancio muttered to himself as twelve thirty came and went and still their table remained unoccupied. He liked Ramon enormously both as friend and business partner, but he was under no illusion as to who was at fault. Ramon’s vanity and arrogance had led him to gamble with his companions’ friendship. Now it appeared the gamble had failed and he had no one to blame but himself. He should never have told that story. There was no need. He was in a new country and he’d made a new start. Why rake over the ashes of his past? But, of course, Gancio knew why. His friend had to gamble, he had to take risks and chance everything he cherished simply for the thrill it gave him. Having retired and with little left to challenge his brain, he used his friends shamelessly to provide him with the sort of adrenalin hit he used to get from playing his corporate games. Gancio glanced once more at his watch. Twelve thirty-one. Ramon would arrive soon. What would he say to him?
‘Come sta, compagno?’
Gancio spun around, a smile broadening across his face. ‘Lucio! Thank God! I wasn’t sure you were coming. You’re the first. Where are the others? You’re late.’
‘Neil’s right behind me.’ Short, fat, balding Lucio was the joker among them, a man whose libido seemingly never knew a moment’s peace.
‘So you’re all coming?’
‘Yes, Gancio, despite the slops you serve us, we’re all coming.’
‘Thank God! After last week I wasn’t sure. How could Ramon have been so stupid? Sit! Sit. Let me bring you some wine.’
‘Not yet. I’ll wait for the others. But Gancio, you make a mistake if you think Ramon is stupid. Ramon is never stupid.’ Lucio’s voice became decidedly less friendly. ‘We’re his playthings, his toys. Oh I know if any one of us asked him for help he’d go out of his way to give it, no questions asked. In that sense he is a true friend. But it is time someone taught him a little respect. What do you think?’
‘What are you two wogs up to?’ Neil had arrived and seemed to have sprung the two Italians in deep conversation.
‘We were discussing you, Neil. We were just saying what a warm, sensitive human being you are and how rare it is to find those qualities in a property developer.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Neil affably. ‘What are we drinking? Just atmosphere?’
‘I have a new wine chilling for you to try. Italian, of course, a Pinot Grigio. Santa Margherita.’
‘Great, but I’m one of those blokes who prefers the taste to the label. So, Gancio old son, if you don’t mind …’
‘Vafanculo, Neil.’ Gancio turned to fetch the wine. He could not keep the smile off his face. It was a smile of relief and of victory—his friend’s victory. Ramon had won! The bastard had done it! He felt like singing, so he did. His regulars turned to one another and smiled indulgently.
‘What’s this va fanculo bit, Lucio? Your mate often says that to me.’
‘It’s Italian for “right away”.’
‘Yeah? Well, what do you reckon? Have you changed your mind since last week?’
‘No. I think the understanding we reached last week is still valid. The bastard played games with us. Unquestionably parts of his story were true but the story itself wasn’t. He took bits of stories from here and there and blended them with fiction to string us along. When you think about it, it was brilliant. But I wasn’t so amused at the time.’
‘Yeah, I think you’re right. He’s a bastard.’
‘Tell him yourself, Neil. He’s just arrived. And he’s got Milos with him.’
If Ramon was at all nervous about co
nfronting his friends once more, he didn’t show it. He strode confidently through the restaurant with his usual measured step, following the carpet runner unerringly as it made its one ninety-degree turn on its path to their table.
‘One of these days I’m going to get Gancio to shift the tables around.’ Neil was the only one insensitive enough to make fun of Ramon’s blindness.
Ramon laughed. ‘Don’t bother. Just get someone to stick out a leg. That works much better.’
‘Afternoon, Ramon, nice to see you’re in good form.’
‘Buon giorno, Lucio. Milos has just told me that you are telling the next story.’
Milos shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘I had a story ready but Lucio asked me if he could go out of turn. What am I supposed to do? Refuse him?’ Milos was the eldest among them, a classic rags-to-modest-riches story, and their self-appointed chairman. He took it upon himself to keep the peace and mediate in disputes. ‘We’re all supposed to be friends, no?’
‘It was very kind of you, Milos.’ Ramon smiled to himself. Everyone was so eager to re-establish their bona fides and kinship. Obviously, he’d really rattled them. ‘I must confess to some disappointment. I was looking forward to your story and more of your central European wit.’ Ramon smiled thinly. ‘If that’s not an oxymoron.’
‘A what?’
‘A contradiction in terms, Neil. How many Hungarians do you know who have made a living out of their sense of humour? But never mind. Lucio never disappoints and besides, I imagine we could all do with some light relief.’
‘After the story you told, you ain’t kidding!’
‘Now, Neil,’ cut in Milos. ‘We agreed not to reopen old wounds, no? We stayed on until nearly midnight last week, Ramon, discussing your story. In the end we decided to give you the benefit of the doubt, and in hindsight that seems a wise decision. We don’t believe that what we heard was your confession nor do we believe that you are evil like the villain in your story. But we also agreed for the sake of our friendship and our lunches to leave your story in the past. And I trust you will never again be so cavalier with our friendship.’
‘You’re still an arsehole, Ramon.’
‘Yes, Neil, but a contrite one.’
Watching from the kitchen, Gancio saw Neil laugh and took that as a cue to bring the wine and antipasto. ‘Eggplant, artichoke, capsicum, prosciutto, salami, alici and olives,’ he announced grandly. ‘I tell you this Ramon, so you know if Neil steals anything from your plate. Who’s telling the story today?’
‘Lucio.’
‘Oh Mother of God, more lies!’ Gancio always affected embarrassment at Lucio’s stories because they both came from the same region of northern Italy—Gancio from Bellagio, Lucio from Varese. ‘How will you shame us today? More sneaky seductions?’
‘No.’ Today Lucio had a surprise for them. ‘The rules have changed,’ he said. ‘Ramon has changed them forever.’ He motioned with his fork. ‘Please begin. That is another rule that has changed. I will give you my reasons and introduce my story while we eat.
‘We once had a rule—no, not a rule, a convention—that we would not bring ourselves into our stories. For four years we’ve told stories without revealing anything about ourselves until Ramon chose to break that convention. We agree his story was only true in parts, yet those parts were revealing. Indirectly we learned much about his early life in Argentina and his new beginning in Australia. Sure, he gave those experiences to someone else—his characters—but there is no doubt that the experiences he drew upon were his own. So no longer do we all meet here as friends and strangers. If you think back, we each of us revealed as much about ourselves as Ramon did in the way we reacted to his story. At various times we were vindictive, pompous and self-righteous. Ramon’s story breached our defences, our carefully constructed façades, so we can’t just sit here and pretend nothing has happened. Perhaps the time really has come to lift the veil a little on our true personalities and our lives. You are not eating. Why?’
‘Lucio, you surprise us.’ Milos gestured to his other companions. ‘We were all expecting froth and bubbles. Instead you sound like me.’
‘You are not taking me seriously.’
‘It’s not easy when the clown decides to play Hamlet.’
‘Neil, that’s unfair!’ Milos reached across the table and put his hand on Lucio’s arm. ‘My friend, you are giving voice to my thoughts. You are right. Things have changed. Ramon has changed everything. But tread carefully. For four years we were quite happy to know little about each other. If we are to know each other better, let us learn gradually and be selective in what we reveal. Ramon’s story was a crack in the dam. Be careful not to burst the dam and turn it into a flood. Now, perhaps we should eat first, no?’
‘No. I am Italian. I can talk and eat at the same time. Gancio, you’re wanted in the kitchen.’
‘Okay, okay. But before I go, this story that lifts the veil, what is it about?’
‘In a way it is both our stories. I am going to take my friends back to Lake Como, to Ravello in the hills above Menaggio. My story begins before Il Duce went mad and dragged Italy into the war on the wrong side.’
‘I would like to hear this story. Maybe I’ll join you later. Okay?’ Gancio returned to his kitchen and to the other diners whose patience was beginning to wear thin. Lucio watched him go and turned back to his companions.
‘I will not put myself in my story other than in the small part I still have to play. When I finish my story, I will be grateful for your advice. But I will not attempt to do what Ramon did. I do not have his skills. No, the story I am about to tell is different to any I have told before. This story is true. There is no invention and no distortions. There is nothing I can or need add to it. You expect me to give you beautiful women and there are beautiful women. But some of these women are more than just beautiful, they are extraordinarily courageous. So are the men. That is the thing about war. It clarifies things. War has no tolerance for the bystander. It sweeps up everyone in its path. It forces people to take sides, willingly or unwillingly. It makes the courageous show their courage and the cowards their cowardice. That is why there are so many books about war, why there are so many stories to tell. But my story is not just a war story. It is above all a romance. It has passion, triumph, treachery, tension, and tragedy. It has everything a good story needs and it is all true. On the Holy Bible I swear it is all true.’
Lucio’s voice had begun to shake. The others looked on bewildered. This was not the friend they knew. This was not the light relief they were expecting. Lucio had opened the door to something infinitely better and more exciting.
‘Bravo,’ said Milos quietly. He looked at Lucio’s largely untouched plate. ‘Now eat.’
And as they ate the audience considered what their storyteller had said and what they were prepared to believe. After all, every storyteller wants the audience to believe that the story is true and Lucio, as his friends now realised, had seized upon the uncertainties caused by Ramon’s breaches of convention and turned them to his advantage. He had been handed the perfect set-up. The rules certainly had changed, but had Lucio? Was he clever enough to exploit them? His audience eyed him with new respect.
Chapter One
April had come and brought the breath of spring and the promise of an end to the war. That should have brought joy and relief to the women in Ravello’s one and only square. The church of San Pietro occupied almost all of the southern boundary, bar a laneway on its eastern side and Ravello’s main street on the other. The street and its neat row of houses formed the western boundary. To the north was the village noticeboard—a featureless two-storey brick wall, part of the building which housed the Parente family and their car repair workshop. Hasty brush-strokes defiantly proclaimed anti-fascist sentiments in a variety of coloured paints, and extolled the virtues of the PCI, the Italian Communist Party, the GL Actionists and Christian Democrats. Also plastered on the wall was a defaced poster which warned against s
upporting or taking part in partisan activities. The eastern side of the square was the social centre of Ravello where people met to exchange information, ideas and gossip.
But on this day nobody was in the mood for idle chatter. There were few people about other than those women who felt most need for the comfort the church offers. The panificio was closed, and the café unattended. By the garage wall, old Mentore Parente gathered up the stones and pieces of old bricks into a pile, all the while crossing himself and muttering. Occasionally he would shake his head and stare in disbelief at the shame-faced women as they climbed or descended the few steps into the church.
Gradually Mentore Parente became aware of the sound of a truck grinding up the hill from Menaggio but he took no notice of it. Neither for that matter did anyone else, though later some would claim that on hearing the labouring engine they felt a chilly premonition which had nothing to do with the fact that one of Lake Como’s resident winds, the breva, had just sprung up. Why would anybody be concerned? Certainly Ravello harboured its share of partisans, every village did. But the Ravello partisans were careful to do nothing which would draw German attention to their homes. Ravello had never been targeted for reprisal shootings as villages closer to Como had. Now with the Germans pulling back out of Italy, there was even less reason for fear.
The old man looked up out of curiosity when the local German commandant’s Lancia Aprilia drove into the square followed by a truck full of soldiers. A few older women paused on the church steps, also curious. A young woman, Giuseppina Cerasuolo, waved shyly. Only one, Maddalena Ortelli, a plain, sad-faced woman who wore each of her forty years as an intolerable burden, guessed what was about to happen. She turned to Giuseppina.
‘Run! Run, you stupid girl!’ she hissed.
Giuseppina hesitated, uncomprehending. It was a fatal mistake. The tailgate of the truck crashed down and soldiers poured into the square. They grabbed the women standing on the church steps. They grabbed the screaming Giuseppina and they grabbed Maddalena Ortelli. Maddalena spat in the face of the young soldier who took hold of her shoulders. He didn’t retaliate. The Oberstleutnant climbed out of the Lancia and began to issue instructions. He was a man everyone in the village knew and grudgingly respected even though he was their enemy.
