by Derek Hansen
Perhaps the Führer could once more work his magic. Perhaps the master magician was privy to information no one else had. It was a slim hope, but there was nothing else for him to hang on to. With all resources committed to the Eastern Front, he knew they now had no hope of getting the precious fuel and reinforcements they needed. And even less hope of going home to Christiane and the stranger who was his son.
Chapter Twenty
Guido Mila was reunited with his unit in June 1941. While he’d done all he could to delay the day, it was fortunate that he was recalled when he was. Otherwise he risked being sent to Russia as part of the hastily organised Corpo di spedizione italiano, Mussolini’s gesture of solidarity with Hitler’s strike at the heart of Bolshevism. If he had, he would most certainly have perished, if not by Russian ordnance then by the cold —Il Duce sent his troops to Russia wearing the same summer uniforms and cardboard shoes that had served them in the French campaign.
Of course there were tears at the Villa Carosio as Andre the chauffeur drove the Count and Guido down the hillside to the barracks at Menaggio, but Cecilia had to wave her farewells dry-eyed. Though she and Guido had grown close over the previous months, it was not her place to weep lest her emotions be misinterpreted. If Signora Mila had intended that Cecilia only read to her husband on rare occasions, her wishes were soon overruled. Guido demanded her presence. His wife and daughter brought him back to health but Cecilia brought him back to life. The two became inseparable, the gifted storyteller and the battered hero.
Often the garden rang to their laughter and even Signora Mila had to concede that the reading sessions were far more beneficial than her and her daughter’s ministrations. Nevertheless, Cecilia’s close relationship with her husband made her feel uneasy, yet she’d been given no reason for disquiet. She’d surprised them often enough by bringing them unasked for pitchers of lemonade, or coffee for Guido, and there’d never been any suggestion of intimacy. But there was no doubting their friendship. Perhaps that was all there was to it. Maybe she envied the fact that Cecilia could make Guido laugh as she never could and this made her a touch jealous. She should be grateful to Cecilia. But instead she was resentful, and she didn’t understand why.
Cecilia was well aware of what was going through the Signora’s mind but was powerless to do anything about it. She knew she should pull back from Signor Mila but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She’d caught looks from the Signora and was now woman enough to comprehend their meaning. Still the understanding was wasted as she fell increasingly under Guido’s spell. She’d never spoken so openly to a man before nor exchanged ideas so freely. And never before had any man treated her as an adult or an equal, nor shown genuine interest in what she had to say. It was as if he were midwife to her intellect, drawing it out into the light and allowing it to stand on its own merit, to exercise and grow. Guido encouraged her to think for herself, not to accept things at face value, and to be unafraid to express her thoughts.
‘If you don’t think,’ he told her, ‘you will never have a point of view of your own. If you never have your own point of view, you will never be independent. If you are not independent you can never be free.’
Cecilia hung on every word. Except for her mother, she’d never been as close to anyone, and she was intoxicated by the experience. But freedom always comes at a price and Cecilia still had to pay her dues. Guido was as committed to the downfall of the fascists as the Count was to their success, and gradually he brought her around to see his point of view. He had to break down the walls of her conditioning, instilled by her schooling, her reading and the pronouncements of the Count. But through Guido she began to see Mussolini in another light. She saw the shallowness of his posturing, the foolishness of the alliance with Germany, and the growing disillusionment of the Italian people. Guido blamed Il Duce for the defeat of Italy which he saw as inevitable. Yet she still had to attend to the Count, to share his prejudices and his blind loyalty to Il Duce. Of course the two were irreconcilable.
It was then that Cecilia discovered her talent for duplicity. At a time when most people were forced to take sides and commit themselves, she vacillated. Her ability to shut out one world allowed her to roam freely in another. She found she could become two people, each part of the same but independent of the other. One a fascist, the other an anti-fascist. Each half was earnest and sincere in the part it played. She saw no conflict because to her there was none. The Count and Guido each had their own Cecilia and she was true to both. This ability to separate her being meant her real self had to withdraw, to retreat to that hidden place within her. But without it, she would not have survived the war.
Of course, all Cecilia was doing was role-playing. Perhaps it was the reading she had done which enabled her to play her parts so skilfully. She became the consummate actress, wholly immersed in each character she played. She slipped from one to the other with scarcely a thought. She even created a special Cecilia for her mother. That is the greatest sadness. It is tragic to think she could not be herself with the person she most loved and trusted in the world, but her involvement with the Count precluded it. Maddalena would have been devastated if she had discovered the truth. How could a mother live with the thought that she’d delivered her daughter into the hands of a man who molested children? So Cecilia invented a role for herself and allowed her mother to believe that it was her skill at reading—learned at Maddalena’s insistence—that had raised her to her present standing.
Guido’s departure coincided with the readmittance of Maddalena to the staff of the Villa Carosio for four days a week. Cecilia was elated. For almost three years her only contact had been through her school friend intermediary, Giuseppina Cerasuolo. Doubtless she would have happily continued as the conduit if the war hadn’t interfered and removed the necessity. The day came when the Count could no longer shield Stefano from being called up to the military, and the Villa lost the only young man on staff and the young housemaid, Anna, lost her lover. She couldn’t bear to remain without Stefano, and chose to train as a nurse and care for wounded soldiers. Perhaps she entertained visions of nursing a wounded Stefano back to health, whereupon he’d pledge his undying love and gratitude, finally offering her the wedding ring she craved. Whatever her motives, her departure created a vacancy which, with a reshuffle of staff, gave Maddalena her old job back.
Cecilia was ecstatic. Her mother more than filled the void Guido left behind and, though she missed the stimulation of their conversations, she had little cause to complain. Between the conclusion of school and her mother’s return each night to her little home above Ravello, the only times Cecilia left her shadow were when the Count asked her to read to him, on the lawn in the afternoon sun. Then Maddalena would sneak away from her chores to watch them, and her heart would fill with pride.
Cecilia was the one joy in Maddalena’s life. She quickly picked up on the fact that her daughter deferred to no one on staff except Signora Mila. But what impressed her most was the fact that Cecilia took her evening meal with the Count, except when he entertained the local fascist hierarchy. Not even Signora Mila did that! As she scrubbed and rubbed, Maddalena’s mind filled with the prospect of Cecilia meeting and marrying someone of wealth and substance. Why not? She was beautiful and intelligent, and clearly the Count had adopted her as his ward. Then she would be beyond poverty and a life of despair. Then she would be free.
… Other servants would look at Maddalena and wonder why it was that the lowliest of servants, the one whose work was a never-ending cycle of drudgery, was always the most cheerful.
Following the bombing of Pearl Harbor in December 1941, the first of Guido’s predictions came true. For most Italians, the inconceivable happened. They woke up one morning and discovered they were at war with America. How could this be so, they wondered, when so many of their countrymen and women and their families had emigrated to America? How could they go to war against their own kin?
Mussolini’s popularity, already on the wane, sl
umped dramatically. The ordinary Italian had had enough of fascism and more than enough of Mussolini. It was Il Duce who had dragged them into the apocalyptic alliance with Hitler. Virtually overnight anti-fascist publications began to appear, dedicated to the overthrow of fascism.
This development may well have passed Cecilia by if a well-wisher in Milan hadn’t forwarded on the illegal pamphlets to the Count. He insisted on her reading them to him. But Cecilia had barely begun before he interrupted her with torrents of abuse aimed at the people behind them.
‘Stronzi!’ he bellowed. ‘Ungrateful shits. This is how they repay Il Duce for all he has done for them! Communists! Dirty reds! Il Duce will hunt them down and destroy them and all of Italy will cheer!’
‘And we will cheer loudest of all!’ Cecilia looked up at the Count full of indignation and outrage.
‘That we will! Read on my child, let’s see how these traitors hang themselves with their every word.’
Cecilia read on, her voice sharp and shrill and edged with anger. She wasn’t acting but reacting in the manner which seemed entirely appropriate to the occasion. But deep inside, Cecilia was fascinated. Guido had predicted that the people would turn against Mussolini and the words he’d used kept recurring in the words she read. She put her thoughts to one side for later consumption as the Count rose to his feet once more and burst into another tirade of abuse. Cecilia waited until he’d run out of breath and stood shaking and gasping for air like a freshly landed fish.
‘Count, you mustn’t let them upset you like this. Every loyal Italian can see through these lies. Please, let me help you back into your chair.’ Cecilia helped him sit and covered his legs with his blanket. The colour drained from his face and his skin resumed its normal deathly pallor. ‘These papers are worthless and meaningless. They don’t deserve to be read. Let me take them away immediately and burn them.’
‘You are a good girl, Cecilia. But burn them here.’ He waved his hand in the general direction of his fireplace. ‘I will enjoy watching them burn.’
‘And have them stink out your study? No! We should not give their authors that satisfaction. Let the cook burn them in her stove. Yes! Let their subversion fuel the stoves of honest, loyal Italians. Let that be our answer!’
‘Yes, throw them in the stove!’ The Count laughed. ‘The evening meal will taste all the sweeter for it. Go! Take them!’
The Count was still chortling to himself as Cecilia left the room. She walked briskly down the hall towards Signora Mila’s office. She paused in the doorway.
‘Yes, Cecilia? What is it? What was the Count raging about this time?’
‘He asked me to read these anti-fascist pamphlets to him,’ said Cecilia innocently. ‘They are quite scurrilous.’ As Cecilia expected, the Signora’s eyes narrowed sharply and she looked intently at the papers in her hand. ‘I have promised him that the cook will burn them in her stove as fuel to heat the evening meal of loyal Italians.’ Cecilia hesitated. The Signora watched her intently. ‘Perhaps, Signora, you may wish to pass them on to the cook yourself, to ensure that the Count’s instructions are carried out.’
A slow smile of comprehension spread across the Signora’s face. ‘Yes, very wise, Cecilia. You are a good girl. Here, give me the papers. I will see to it.’
‘Yes, Signora. Oh, and Signora …?’
‘Yes?’
‘When I read them I could hear the voice of someone we both know well.’
‘Who?’
Cecilia laughed and withdrew.
Cecilia passed the pamphlets on to Signora Mila because she knew she would be interested in reading them. It was a spur of the moment decision. She had no inkling of the effect her ostensibly trivial action would have on the Signora or of the consequences that followed. Had she anticipated the shattering effect it would have upon their lives, she would have taken the pamphlets straight to the kitchen stove herself, and stood over them while they burned.
Cecilia wasn’t the least surprised when the Signora called her into her office the following day. Staff shortages had disrupted the normally smooth running of the household, and Cecilia was often called upon to help out. Even the Signora’s daughter, Carmela, had been pressed into service. It wasn’t until Signora Mila closed the door behind her that Cecilia suspected this meeting would be any different from the others.
‘Cecilia,’ the Signora began, ‘I know I can trust you so I want you to speak frankly. I want to hear from your lips what you and my husband talked about while you were reading to him.’
‘We discussed the war, Signora, and your husband’s attitude to Mussolini and fascism. But surely you know that?’
‘Of course. But I want to know if you share Guido’s beliefs?’
Cecilia hesitated. The only beliefs she shared were the beliefs of whoever she was with at the time. ‘Do I think Il Duce was wrong to take sides with Hitler? Yes. Do I still believe that he is the saviour of Italy? No. Do I think Italy will win the war? No, we will never beat America. Even if Germany conquers Russia, we will never beat the Americans. But you must understand, Signora, I will give exactly the opposite answers to the Count.’
‘Of course. As we all must do. That is, if we wish to remain at the Villa Carosio.’
‘What do you want from me, Signora?’
‘Your complete trust, Cecilia. Nothing less. I have to know that in the times ahead, I can absolutely rely upon you. Can I?’
‘Signora, when I first came here, you tried to warn me about the Count’s “tastes”. You told me I could always come to you whenever I needed to as one woman to another. In return you asked me to promise that I would never lie to you. You tell me, Signora, have I ever lied to you?’
The Signora took her time answering. She looked hard at the fifteen-year-old girl in front of her and wondered—not for the first time—how she could possibly be so calm in the face of her questioning, and so mature in the way she responded. On the surface at least, it seemed Cecilia would be ideal for their cause, but what went on behind those beautiful, deceptively passive eyes? She shook her head as if to dismiss further speculation and reached across the table to take Cecilia’s hands in hers.
‘No, Cecilia, you have never lied to me. You are a good girl and I have said that often enough. I can also see that you are brave.’ The Signora hesitated once more before taking the plunge. ‘Cecilia, remember how we once promised each other that one day we would get even with the Count for what he did to you?’
‘Yes, Signora.’
‘Do you still feel the same way?’
‘Yes, Signora. You know I can never forgive him.’
‘Well, Cecilia, the day has come.’
Cecilia gasped and her brow furrowed. It was one thing to entertain some vague notion of one day making the Count pay for what he’d done to her, another to confront the reality. How could she, the daughter of dirt-poor, illiterate peasants, possibly have the means to take revenge on someone as powerful and important as the Count? It defied credulity and, worse, hinted at sacrifice. She’d been through too much to give it all away now. The question burst from her lips. ‘But won’t we jeopardise our place here at the Villa Carosio?’
‘Not necessarily. We can hurt the Count without him even knowing it. We can get our revenge on him over and over and he will never suspect a thing. We can hurt him where it really matters. Does that appeal to you?’
Cecilia smiled. She couldn’t imagine what the Signora had in mind. But, yes, provided it didn’t cost her her place in the Villa it appealed to her! She waited for the Signora to continue.
‘Cecilia, we may receive an unexpected guest tonight. A man who needs our help. Whether or not he comes depends on you because you are vital to our plan. The man is an escaped prisoner of war. A British pilot.’
Cecilia could not restrain herself. Her sharp intake of breath silenced the Signora. She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. It all seemed so impossible, so unreal.
‘A British pilot? Here? At the Villa Caro
sio? Signora have you gone …’ Cecilia caught herself in the nick of time. ‘Signora, do you think that is wise?’
The Signora laughed. For the first time ever, she’d ruffled Cecilia’s calm. The girl was human after all. But Cecilia was only surprised, monumentally surprised. She looked closely but could find no sign of fear.
‘Have I gone crazy? No. Do I think it is wise to bring the airman here? Yes. Who would think to look for him here in this bastion of fascism? Who would dare to hide an escaped prisoner right under the Count’s fascist nose? Don’t you see, Cecilia? At last we can do something for Italy, something worthwhile. At last we can do something to help end this madness and bring our men home. At last we can get our revenge on that disgusting old goat upstairs. Oh, Cecilia, can’t you see?’
Cecilia took her time to digest what the Signora was saying and the fact that she was being asked to become involved. She had to admire the Signora’s audacity. It was true, nobody would think to search the Villa Carosio for escaped prisoners of war.
‘Cecilia, we need your help.’ The Signora had become her normal business-like self. ‘The pilot is ill. He was trying to climb across the border to Switzerland when our people found him. He was exhausted and feverish from too many nights sleeping out in the cold. It was a miracle he was picked up by us and not by the militia. He needs a warm bed and someone who can feed and look after him. We are hoping he can stay in your room. He could have Anna’s bed.’
‘But Signora, what if he is discovered there?’
‘He won’t be. Carla and Antonella have the room next to yours. They have already helped me out on other occasions.’ The Signora noticed Cecilia’s eyes widen. ‘Yes, they have sheltered deserters overnight. Men like Guido who were sent home to recover from wounds and couldn’t face going back to the war. You read those pamphlets, Cecilia, you know they called upon our soldiers to desert. Well many have. Some of them slept in the room next to you and you never knew. Why should you? You don’t go into their room and they don’t go into yours. Cecilia, now that Anna has left us, no one goes into your room now except you. Unless you have a Stefano you haven’t told us about.’
