Lunch with Mussolini

by Derek Hansen

  ‘Could you repeat the name?’

  Colombina smiled and did as requested. Hospitals everywhere were seemingly untouched by the life and death dramas enacted within their walls. The people who serviced her car showed more emotion.

  ‘B3.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘He’s in B3. That’s the ward.’

  He was alive! Colombina suppressed her excitement. Or was it relief? ‘Could you tell me his condition, please?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to pass on that information. Would you like to speak to the sister?’

  ‘Please.’ Colombina hung on while she was put on hold and the phone played a jingle for margarine. The commercial ended and they crossed to the news just as the ward sister answered.

  ‘Sister …’

  ‘Hello. I’m Mrs Galli. I’m ringing about a friend of mine who is in your ward. Mr Bose.’

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘Mr Bose doesn’t have any relatives in Australia.’ Colombina could see the trap coming and decided to bend the truth a little. ‘I help take care of him and bring him meals. I am his closest friend.’

  ‘You’re not Cecilia by any chance?’

  Colombina felt her blood run cold. She was stunned speechless.

  ‘No,’ the voice on the phone continued. ‘I don’t suppose you could be. He called her name out all the time in his sleep after the operation and now we tease him about her. He says she’s someone he knew in Italy or somewhere. Hello …?’

  ‘I’m sorry. You mentioned an operation. I was out of town when he was taken ill. What was the problem?’

  ‘Kidney stones.’

  Kidney stones. Colombina didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Of all the possibilities that had gone through her head! She was prepared for a stroke, a heart attack, a fall. Nothing had prepared her for kidney stones!

  ‘May I visit him?’

  ‘Certainly. Visiting time is from two until four, then from six until seven-thirty.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll come this evening.’

  ‘I’ll let him know when he wakes up. He’s still under mild sedation and has a lot of pain passing water.’ She paused and added knowledgeably. ‘Fragments.’

  Colombina hung up. She wondered momentarily if it was her cooking that had caused the kidney stones. Then her mind moved on to the greater issue. She found it hard to believe he’d be calling out the name of a lover he hadn’t seen for nearly fifty years.

  ‘Hello, Heinrich.’ Colombina had brought a bunch of flowers she’d picked from her garden, four kiwi fruit which she knew he adored, and a half bottle of red wine. She also brought her Walkman, some opera tapes and a small transformer so that he wouldn’t always be replacing batteries. She knew how much the Walkman would be used.

  ‘Colombina!’ The old man opened his eyes and the delight in them was overwhelming and genuine. ‘Colombina. I was so worried. I didn’t think you would be able to find me.’ His speech and his movements were slow but the sedatives hadn’t suppressed his emotions.

  Colombina was touched. At that moment she was the old man’s closest friend and nothing more. She watched as tears washed over the old man’s eyes and made them shiny. She placed his flowers on the bed tray, his fruit and wine on top of his cabinet, and bent over and kissed his cheek.

  ‘You shouldn’t have worried, Heinrich. You should have known I would find you. I would never stop searching until I did.’ Colombina chose her words deliberately and watched closely to see what effect they would have. But he appeared to take them at face value, as a declaration of affection.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Opera, Heinrich. I know you can’t live without it and I thought I’d save the hospital the trouble of having to dispose of your body.’

  The old man smiled, delighted with both the gift and the irreverence. Colombina took his hand and squeezed. A long time ago it was his smile that had cut through her defences. Her response was entirely reflexive, familiar and learned. But there was danger in its familiarity, unequivocal confirmation of her true identity, and she was quick to cover up. She used the gesture to hand over the Walkman. Heinrich gave no flicker of recognition, no hint of an acknowledgement other than gratitude at her thoughtfulness.

  ‘So who have you brought me?’ He reached across to his cabinet for his glasses. He examined each cassette minutely as if their contents took a while to register. ‘Ah … Lohengrin, a very old friend. And Elisabeth Schwarzkopf.’ He peered up at Colombina over his glasses. ‘When I die, Colombina, I would like them to attend my funeral. I can imagine no finer farewell. Would you do that for me?’

  ‘First you have to die.’

  He peered at her intently and Colombina had the distinct impression that something beyond the obvious had at last penetrated his drug-induced haze. She held her breath. Was this the moment of truth, when they both stopped playing games? Instead he slowly smiled.

  ‘Colombina, you are a tonic. An absolute tonic!’ He began to chuckle.

  Colombina joined him. She’d learn no more that day and dared not throw any more hints. If he knew she was Cecilia then he’d kept the knowledge securely to himself. Even with his brain undermined by sedatives he hadn’t flinched. She’d tried three times to unsettle him—twice deliberately and once accidentally—yet there’d been not the slightest indication. Surely there would have been. Surely his sedation would have worked in her favour. Did he know who she was? Did he know she suspected he knew? Surely in his weakened state with his mental processes inhibited, there would have been some indication. But maybe not. Maybe the sedatives worked against her and masked any reaction on his part, giving him the opportunity to examine her words later. If so, she’d blundered. She had revealed her doubts and he had revealed nothing.

  Colombina visited him every day for the next fortnight, always in the evening because she’d learned that John and Edna often called by in the afternoons following their Meals-on-Wheels duties. She never tested him again—she had no need to. She was now convinced that he knew who she was. He would not have cried out her name unless she was on his mind. He was playing her game and she believed she understood his motives. At first she’d thought he’d gone along with the charade preferring to have the company of an enemy he liked rather than no company at all. Certainly he was confident enough to pit his wits against hers. But if he was doing it simply for amusement he was taking an entirely unwarranted risk. Then it dawned on her. It was so blindingly obvious she was astonished by her stupidity. After all this time, he still loved her. The thought came unbidden and brought with it half a century of pain. Suddenly it all made sense. And another possibility occurred to her. Maybe she hadn’t found him. Maybe he had found her.

  The more Colombina thought about it, the more certain she became. They were both refugees but only one a fugitive. Only one needed forgiveness. And only forgiveness and the rekindling of love could justify his empty, meaningless existence through all the lonely years. Yes, Colombina thought, if I forgive him and open my heart to him once more, his penance will have been worthwhile. It will all have been worthwhile. That is why he persists. He loves me and I am his only hope for absolution. He wants me to absolve him. But there could be no absolution, only retribution. Her fingers unconsciously searched out the hasp on her locket and flicked it open. They picked at the photograph of Mario and removed it so that Maddalena’s faded image gazed up at her, a silent but insistent plea for justice.

  She drove the old man home from the hospital, promising to look in on him every day to make sure he was all right, knowing full well that she would never have a better chance to kill him. His legs would still be weak. It would be understandable if he fell. Forget the poison. She could confront him. Force him to face up to his guilt. And his fate. Then she would drag him through to the bathroom. If his head didn’t hit the toilet or the edge of the bath the first time he fell, it certainly would the second.

  But dear God! To think how easily it could all have been
so different! To think he still loved her after all those years. All those wasted years! And to think she still loved him. Yes! Of course she did. She could admit it now that the end was imminent. Of course she still loved him. That was the terrible thing. They were still in love and now she had to lose him again.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  By June 1943, Il Duce was sick, dispirited and ineffectual. Hitler, once his friend and ally, now made no secret of his contempt for him and everything Italian. Mussolini’s country had turned against him and there were dark whispers of revolt from within his own ranks. His army was in tatters and, worse, those soldiers who were prepared to fight were defecting to the resistance. But he still had some friends and none were more strident than the Count d’Alatri.

  The Count’s arch-enemy, the communists, had risen once more and struck at the country’s heart. Massive strikes had swept Milan and Turin. This show of strength had galvanised the Count into action. As Mussolini faltered the Count grew stronger. He wrote to Il Duce every day, forcefully suggesting punitive action against the strikers and their families, and offering to finance a bounty on the head of every killed or captured communist leader. He also railed against what he saw as cavalier treatment of Italy by the Germans, and insisted that Il Duce demand more aircraft and weaponry. When local fascist leaders came to dinner he berated them for their ineffectual attempts to deal with the partisans and escaped prisoners.

  Increasingly Cecilia found herself less of a companion and more of a secretary. The Count had acquired a typewriter which she now used to type his letters as he dictated them. She developed the knack of capturing the sense and flavour of his rantings and composed her own sentences. It not only added to the comprehension but enabled her to keep up. The Count constantly sent letters to Il Duce, and began to network his old friends in the fascist hierarchy. Even when she was at school, Cecilia had never worked so hard. She longed for the afternoons when the Count would retire for his siesta and she’d have the chance to talk to Guido Mila.

  There’d been no hero’s welcome this time for the wounded soldier. The Count failed to understand how Guido could allow the Italian army to be weakened twice by his absence. He accused him of malingering and, in fact, he wasn’t far from the truth. The bullet which had creased Guido’s head had travelled a long way to find him and no longer had the energy to penetrate his skull. By rights it should have, and the doctors who attended him were curious as to why it hadn’t. They attributed his survival somewhat facetiously to the thickness of bone and the absence of brain. But Guido was no fool. He made the most of his misfortune and milked it. He had the perfect injury for a soldier who wanted to take no further part in a war that was already lost. Head wounds were a passport out of uniform because no doctor could ever be certain of the extent of the injury. So Guido complained of severe headaches he never had, dizziness he never felt, and blinding flashes of light he never saw. He was well versed on the symptoms, as most of his fellow soldiers were. Head wounds were precious and not to be wasted.

  At first he allowed Cecilia to bathe his forehead and minister to him, relishing her care and concern. One day he told her the truth and she nearly hit him. Then she laughed. It was another blow against the Count. He was now sheltering a malingerer. Nevertheless she maintained the charade and continued to nurse him and pander to him to avoid suspicions. Besides, the daily ritual gave them the chance to be together and talk.

  She never asked herself what was at the root of her attraction to him, possibly because she didn’t want to know the answers. But she lapped up his company and hung on his every word. When he told her how proud he was of her for helping deserters and escaped prisoners, she glowed.

  ‘You risk your pretty little neck,’ he said. ‘You risk your life for men like me, poor men who can never repay your kindness.’ He put his hand up to her cheek as a father would to a favoured daughter. ‘After the war when Italy names its brave, you will be there at the top of the list.’

  He made all the risks she’d taken and would continue to take seem worthwhile. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for him, no risk she wouldn’t be willing to take. He was her hero and she adored him. If only her own father had been like Guido. So every day she swung between the fascist and the anti-fascist, the fanatic and the reluctant soldier, the deviant and the hero. She balanced the opposing forces and was unswervingly loyal to both. Cecilia was happy and would have been content if things had remained as they were. But the time was fast approaching when loyalties would have to be declared and consequences acknowledged. Change was inevitable and, as it happened, the Count was the catalyst.

  One evening over dinner he announced that he had to see Mussolini in person. ‘My child, we will write to Il Duce tomorrow. You will accompany me to Rome. There are matters I need to discuss with him which I can only do in person. He is surrounded by traitors. It is not something I can put in letters. Who knows who has access to his mail?’

  ‘Will I meet Il Duce?’ Cecilia looked up at the Count, her eyes shining brightly. She knew exactly how to react.

  ‘If the opportunity arises, of course you will. In fact, I will see to it that you do. He is a great man, Cecilia, but never too great to shake the hands of his supporters, whoever they may be. Andre can drive us to Milan. We can catch a train from there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cecilia. She reached across and squeezed the Count’s hand.

  ‘You are a good girl, Cecilia. With people like you I know our cause is not yet lost.’

  He kept Cecilia busy all the morning of the next day, writing letters and making travel arrangements. For a while it seemed that he would work through lunch and forgo his afternoon sleep. But eventually tiredness crept up and claimed him. As soon as she was free, she dashed away to find Signor Mila and tell him the news. She found him sitting alone in the shade of a plane tree, gazing out over the lake.

  ‘How is your headache?’ she asked.

  ‘For once I do have a headache—two headaches in fact—because I’m getting another headache just trying to think of a cure for the first.’

  Cecilia laughed. ‘Have you heard about my little journey?’

  ‘Yes, I have heard,’ he said. ‘It is a pity I don’t have a hand grenade to give you, to slip down the front of Il Duce’s trousers. That would cure my headache and spare us all a lot of problems and hardship.’

  Cecilia laughed along with him. She loved him when he was in this mood. But he turned serious and took her hand.

  ‘Cecilia, when you come back from Rome you will be on your own.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Everything suddenly went deathly quiet. If the birds still sang she never heard them. For a moment the earth ceased spinning and time froze. Her mind focused exclusively on his next words, seeking enlightenment.

  ‘It is almost certain that the British and the Americans will land somewhere in Italy. When that happens the fascists will grab every man they can get their hands on to go and fight them.’

  ‘But you can’t …’

  ‘No, I can’t. And I won’t. Nevertheless, it is time for a full recovery. Things can’t stay as they are. Signor Calosci is already suspicious. He fought in the first war and you can’t fool old soldiers. Cecilia, I’m going up into the hills to find others like me. We will become partisans. We will fight the fascists and the Germans when they come. Germany is our enemy now, not Britain or America.’

  ‘But what will happen to the Signora and Carmela?’

  ‘You know what will happen. The Count will throw them out. He won’t have the family of a traitor living under the same roof. I will take advantage of the Count’s absence to slip away. It will also give the Signora time to make other arrangements. I assume Signor Calosci is also accompanying you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we will have time. The Signora and Carmela will have a home until the Count returns. There’s nobody with enough authority to throw them out. Perhaps the Count will let them stay on a while. Who knows? He is a selfish man and
does not like to go without his comforts. Maybe he will keep them until he finds someone to replace them.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Cecilia could not keep the doubt out of her voice. Her mind was reeling and not up to playing along with patently false hopes. She suddenly realised how much she’d come to depend on the Signora. Her presence was a strength she could always draw upon. And even Carmela. They’d become close friends. What would she do now? The thought burst like a bubble from her mouth.

  ‘What will you do? Cecilia you will continue to do what you’ve always done. You will take care of the Count. You will be faithful to him and Mussolini. It will be hard, Cecilia, but you can do it. We both know you can. You will stay here at the Villa. The time may come when we will need you.’

  Cecilia knew she would cope, she always did. But there was the other part of her loss which had nothing to do with being isolated. Guido was going away. She might never see him again or talk to him. She knew from the men she’d helped that life on the run was desperately hard. The only things they could be certain of were starvation and deprivation. She glanced up at the hills, welcoming now in the warmth of summer but desolate in winter. He could starve, he could freeze to death or he could get shot and die. Surely he couldn’t escape with just being wounded a third time. She thought of that kind and decent man dying alone in the mountains with no one to care for him or comfort him. Maybe what she felt was only puppy love or the love of a daughter for a father. Whatever it was, it was still love and Cecilia felt heartbroken. How could she explain that to Guido? She felt like crying but wouldn’t allow the tears to form, not even when Guido leaned across and kissed her cheek.

  ‘Be careful,’ she whispered and walked slowly back to the house.

  The trains had adopted the practice of running at night to avoid possible attack by marauding Allied aircraft, even though they were still safely beyond fighter range. For once, the Italian bureaucracy had anticipated the need. To Cecilia’s surprise, the Count slept through the entire journey and even snored. He seemed to relish being active and having a sense of purpose once more. Overnight, the years had fallen away and he’d become a much younger man. When they arrived in Rome, he had to be dissuaded from going straight to the Palazzo Venezia and joining Mussolini for a surprise breakfast. Instead they went to the Count’s apartment which had been rapidly vacated by his nephew and family, who normally enjoyed the privilege of staying there. Cecilia had written the letter warning them of the Count’s arrival.