by Derek Hansen
All she wanted was a hot bath and a bed, and time to get used to the fact that Guido was now probably gone from the Villa Carosio, and that the Signora and Carmela would soon be as well. But the Count had found untapped sources of energy and was eager to bring forward his meeting with Il Duce.
‘Wait till you see him, Cecilia, he is magnificent. You can feel the power radiating from him. He is an inspiration. You will have to wait of course, until we have completed our business. After all, that is why we are here. But Cecilia, I promise you, it is an experience you will never forget.’
For once Cecilia’s enthusiasm failed to live up to the required levels.
‘Cecilia, I am talking about meeting Il Duce.’ His voice grew hard. ‘What are you saying? Is Il Duce no longer important to you?’
Cecilia forced a tired smile. ‘Count, if the Lord struck me dead the moment after I met him, I would die happy for I know that nothing else that might happen in my life would ever compare.’
‘That’s more like it!’
‘But Count, I am not used to sleeping on trains. I did not sleep all night. Signor Calosci can confirm this.’
‘In that case go and sleep. I will call you at lunch time. By then I will have some letters for you and hopefully a typewriter. Go!’
Cecilia found her way to the servants’ quarters and lay down. She knew well that it wasn’t tiredness that had caused her façade to slip but distraction. Guido had upset her equilibrium. She could not allow it to happen again. The Count was neither tolerant nor fair and was liable to do anything in one of his rages. What would she do then? She put Guido in a corner of her brain where he could hide and sealed him off. She thought about meeting Il Duce and made herself feel excited. She remembered everything she’d read about him, to her father and to the Count. She thought of the march on Rome, and the triumphant procession through Rome with Hitler. She cheated her mind until her weariness overcame her and she fell into sleep. But she couldn’t cheat her dreams.
The Count strode into the Palazzo Venezia as though he’d borrowed the legs of a much younger man. He was imperious and his reception justified his attitude. He was warmly greeted by Il Duce’s personal staff, veterans of the march on Rome, and led away immediately to his private chambers. Cecilia was taken to one side and offered a chair away from the traffic and virtually out of sight. Yet she was happy to be tucked away. She found the Palazzo overwhelming and intimidating. She didn’t belong there. She’d always thought that the Villa Carosio was grand but it paled into insignificance by comparison. So she watched and waited and did her best to appear invisible.
She heard a door bang and a woman’s voice ring out. Cecilia stirred and looked around. Down the stairway came a young woman talking animatedly to the man who was with her. She was beautiful and elegant and looked to Cecilia as if she’d stepped out from the pages of a magazine.
‘Buona sera, Signorina Petacci!’ someone called. The Signorina waved.
‘Who’s she?’ wondered Cecilia.
Time and again Cecilia heard footsteps and doors open and close and looked up expecting to see the Count. But each time she was disappointed. She glanced repeatedly at the clock which seemed as bored as she was, and only moved on reluctantly out of habit. Three hours! For three hours she’d sat silent and invisible, blessing her foresight in going to the toilet before they left the apartment.
‘Signorina Ortelli?’
Cecilia started. Where had he come from? She rose from her chair as if it had suddenly become scaldingly hot. The man smiled. He was as old as Signor Calosci and dressed the same way. Doubtless he had similar duties.
‘Yes.’
‘Il Duce will see you.’
She followed the old man as if in a trance. She had no need to fake excitement. Her hands trembled and she could feel her mouth drying up. She sucked her cheeks in as she did when she was reading and worked her tongue around them, searching for moisture. He led her away up the stairs.
‘One moment, please.’
They waited outside a room while her escort knocked discreetly. How had they got there? Which way had they come? Cecilia had never felt so nervous before. There was a sign on the door which read ‘Zodiac Room’. It meant nothing to her. Her escort turned the handle and opened the door. He stood aside for her, then followed her in.
‘Ah, Cecilia. Come here, girl.’
There were two men in the room, both seated and partly silhouetted by the table light behind them, but there was no mistaking who was whom.
‘Il Duce has asked to meet the person whose handwriting he so admires. He wants us to dispense with the typewriter. It is a poor substitute for your hand. Duce, allow me to present Cecilia Ortelli.’
Cecilia curtsied and offered her hand. What was it the Count had said? He was never too great to shake the hands of his supporters. So she held out her hand for him to shake. As he turned she could see his face clearly. She was stunned. He was old and what …? She’d expected to see the proud head with the forward-jutting chin. She’d expected to see a man of destiny, precise of gesture and clear of purpose. But instead of a legend she found a mere mortal, bowed down and beaten and very, very ordinary. Where was the power the Count spoke of? Where was the aura? Where was the magnificence? Where was Il Duce of all the books and papers she’d read? Was this the man she’d trembled to meet? She wanted to laugh. Il Duce rose slowly from his chair and took her hand. He raised it to his lips and kissed it. The gesture was supposed to be grand and gallant but struck her as incongruous and faintly ridiculous.
‘Signorina, it is a pleasure to meet you at last.’
‘And I am honoured to meet you. It is the proudest moment of my life.’
‘The Count has told me all about you. I could not allow this opportunity to pass without meeting you. I would invite you to join us for coffee but alas I have other demands on my time. Count d’Alatri has invited me to the Villa Carosio. I look forward to meeting you again under less pressing circumstances.’ He drew himself up to his full height, bent stiffly forward and gazed into her eyes as he once more kissed her hand. Perhaps he imagined he still had the seductive charm of his youth when women competed to lie alongside him, but the sixteen-year-old Cecilia could find no trace of it. He turned to the Count. ‘Again I thank you for your advice and counsel. I will of course value it. In these times it is reassuring to know I have friends such as yourself whom I can always count upon. Goodbye, my friend.’ Mussolini escorted them half way to the door where his servant took over.
‘What did I tell you?’ said the Count exultantly, once they were on the other side of the door. ‘Isn’t he magnificent?’
Andre met them at the station in Milan and the Count’s rage grew with each passing kilometre. Cecilia had hoped they’d stop in Como for coffee where, on the pretext of visiting the toilet, she could sneak away to a telephone and warn the Signora. But the Count was in no mood to dally. He raged at Andre’s report of Guido’s treachery and vowed to have the Signora and Carmela shot in retaliation. Their betrayal was an affront to his name and reputation—he, a confidante of Il Duce! The insult! The shame! The humiliation!
Cecilia had never seen the Count so angry, not even during his most strident, anti-communist ravings. She had little choice but to sit quietly by, listen and occasionally echo his sentiments. After all, what point was there in defending the indefensible and incurring his wrath as well? Yet she was concerned for the Signora and Carmela. The Count’s threat to have them both shot worried her, and with some justification. They wouldn’t be the first people shot for harbouring partisans. She’d heard the rumours, and the anti-fascist pamphlets seemed to confirm them. So much for Guido’s optimism. If the Count kept the Signora and Carmela on at the Villa Carosio it would only be to imprison them until the militia arrived. Cecilia felt she had to do something, but what could she do without embroiling herself?
Signor Calosci and Andre sat mutely up front, concentrating steadfastly on the road ahead. Both old soldiers, they knew well
when to keep their heads down. But in Signor Calosci, Cecilia saw a possible, if unwilling, ally. As they negotiated the narrow winding road alongside the lake, Cecilia decided to make her move.
‘How could Signor Mila be so treacherous?’ she asked, indignation colouring her every word. ‘How could he insult the Count who has been so kind to him? Signor Calosci, you were once a soldier, you tell me. How can a soldier who has brought us honour, turn and shame the Villa Carosio like this? And even his own family! The Signora must be mortified—she who has always been so loyal! You tell me!’
Signor Calosci squirmed in his seat. He could see what Cecilia was trying to do and wanted no part. But the silence begged a response.
‘Men change, piccolina.’
‘But to betray his own family as well!’
Signor Calosci sank further into his seat. He looked to Andre for support, but the chauffeur stared intently at the road as if expecting it to rise up like a snake and bite them, grateful that Cecilia hadn’t picked on him.
‘What are you saying, Cecilia?’ interrupted the Count. There was a quiet menace in his voice that Cecilia had learned to fear. ‘Are you suggesting that the traitor Guido did not discuss his plans with his wife? Of course he did! Those two have always been as thick as thieves. I have never trusted them!’
‘If Signor Mila told the Signora of his intention, I’m sure she would have talked him out of it. At least, she would have tried. She is a loyal Italian. She is loyal to Mussolini and she has always been loyal to you, Count. Ask Signor Calosci! Signor, has the Signora ever been disloyal to the Count?’
Signor Calosci sighed and bowed to the inevitable. ‘No, she has never been disloyal, not to my knowledge. Nor has she ever been dishonest. But Cecilia, who knows what people think in their hearts? Even if she was always loyal, we must consider what happens when that loyalty is divided. Should she be loyal to the Count or to her husband? I say she should be loyal to the Count whose generosity she enjoys. The church, however, may insist that a wife remains loyal to her husband. If so, then she must accept the consequences of that course of action.’
‘And if she has remained loyal to the Count, what then are the consequences?’
Signor Calosci was lost for words. He’d been out-manoeuvred and knew it. She’d turned his own argument against him. The old soldier’s instincts told him it was time to run for cover, but what cover was there? He could feel the Count’s eyes on him and he shrank under their intensity. What if the Signora had remained loyal to the Count? He considered that possibility for the first time and the injustice that may be her only reward. The tide had turned and the old soldier climbed out of the trench one more time.
‘Then Cecilia, it is a matter for the Count’s discretion. The Count is never disloyal to those who are loyal to him. But how do we know whether she has remained loyal to the Count or not?’
‘Perhaps you could ask Andre.’
They were travelling on one of the few good stretches of road, along the waterfront at Tremezzo, yet the car swayed suddenly as if forced to avoid a pothole.
‘Well, Andre?’ The Count’s voice had lost none of its venom.
‘Her husband ran off into the mountains the night after you left. She told me in the morning and I drove down to Menaggio and informed the militia. He stole some bread, sausage and flour. The Signora has remained and run the household as efficiently as always. She has also replaced everything that traitorous bastard stole at her own expense. She could have run away but she hasn’t. But where could she go that the Count could not find her? I can’t answer your question.’
‘But you have!’ Cecilia turned to the Count triumphantly. ‘See? As soon as she realised her husband had run off to join the partisans she told Andre so he could tell the militia. She is loyal to us. She is loyal to you! I knew it!’
‘We’ll see!’ The Count still scowled but his voice showed definite signs of a thaw. He liked the idea of the Signora reporting the defection of her husband. He liked the thought that her loyalty to him was greater than even the bond of marriage. Yes, perhaps he’d been a little too hasty. Perhaps she was a true fascist. Only fascism and the justice of their cause could command such loyalty. Perhaps he had misjudged her.
As their car swept into the driveway, the Signora appeared on the front steps as she normally did. At least their system of lookouts still worked efficiently. The moment they came to a halt, Signor Calosci jumped out to open the rear door.
‘Welcome home, Count.’ The Signora smiled stiffly. Cecilia was impressed that she’d managed to smile at all.
‘Welcome home indeed! To what? Infamy and betrayal! I want to see you now! In my study!’
Before they’d even begun unpacking the car, they could hear the Count berating the Signora. Everyone except Signor Calosci made themselves scarce, but there were few places in the villa where the Count’s shouts did not penetrate. But tiredness finally caught up with him and his voice weakened until he could no longer be heard beyond the walls of his study. Cecilia went in search of Carmela to comfort her. She was with her when her mother finally emerged from the study, teary-eyed and shaken. The Signora turned to Signor Calosci hovering in the hallway.
‘He’s letting us stay on. I can’t believe it. Thank God!’
‘Save your prayers woman and thank Cecilia. The Count was going to have you shot. The girl talked him around. She is smarter than the rest of us put together. And braver. However, if I were you I would not chance fate a second time. Do not make any attempt to contact your husband. Do you understand?’
Oh yes. The Signora understood. She also understood the extraordinary risk Cecilia had taken. Signor Calosci was right. Cecilia was brave. But neither of them suspected how brave she was or could even guess at the risks she’d soon be asked to take.
The Count’s visit to Mussolini proved futile. Three weeks later his Party turned against him and the Fascist Grand Council voted to dismiss him. The following day, King Vittorio Emanuele III ordered Mussolini’s arrest. He was imprisoned first on the Island of Ponza, then on a remote island off the coast of Sardinia. But fears of possible rescue and reinstatement by the Germans led to him being moved once more. This time to a hotel high on the Gran Sasso d’Italia, considered unassailable.
The Count was devastated. He couldn’t imagine how Il Duce had even allowed the vote to take place. He had warned him himself! He turned his fury against the conspirators but what could he do? Marshal Badoglio had now taken over as the head of government and he was sure to surrender to the Allies. Italy was finished. Fascism was finished. Both sacrificed by the men Mussolini had most trusted. On September 8, Marshal Badoglio confirmed his worst fears and Italy capitulated.
The Count alternated between rage and despair, and only Cecilia and Signor Calosci were spared the sting of his tongue. For two months his staff hung on grimly, to be summarily dismissed for some slight which usually existed solely in the Count’s mind, only to be rehired when passions had cooled. Then came the radio broadcast, the miracle he never dared dream of.
‘Blackshirts,’ it began. ‘Men and women of Italy. After a long silence you hear my voice once again, which I am sure you recognise …’
Incredibly, Mussolini had been rescued from his prison in the Abruzzi. In one of the most audacious missions of the war, German glider-borne troops had crash-landed on the slopes and whisked Il Duce away to Munich. The Count’s excited shouts brought people running from all over the Villa and they listened with decidedly mixed feelings as Mussolini announced the dissolution of the monarchy and the establishment of a new Fascist Republican Government. Italy was not only back in the war but engaged in another which was much more insidious—civil war.
The Count wept for joy.
Chapter Twenty-six
Despite all the representations Gottfried made on his behalf, Friedrich was destined for the Eastern Front and command of another Panzer unit. The army was desperate for officers with his experience, courage and tactical knowledge, attribute
s Rommel had unwittingly confirmed in his reports back to the OKH, army headquarters. He was promoted to Oberstleutnant and placed on standby. His old fears were rekindled. The Russians had already developed a method of knocking out German Panther tanks by climbing aboard and firing flame-throwers through the engine vents. The crews were under no illusion as to what would happen to them once the tank was disabled. During the daytime Friedrich could dismiss his fears, but they crept up on him at night and attacked him in his sleep.
But once again Friedrich gained an unexpected reprieve. The Allies stormed ashore on the beaches of Sicily. Expecting a second landing on the toe or shin of Italy, Hitler rushed to protect his exposed underbelly and diverted all available men and matériel south. Friedrich was available. Although he wasn’t relieved from command of tanks, at least he was spared the Eastern Front.
He was sent to help shore up Kesselring’s defences along the Gustav Line formed by the Garigliano and Sangro rivers, north of Naples. Earlier in the war, the German army had proved itself irresistible in attack. Now, on the defensive, it was proving impregnable. Through the autumn and winter it held out against the Fifth Army and the Eighth Army, halting its advance northwards along both coasts.
At first, Friedrich had impressed his men with his courage and bravery under fire. Even in the thick of battle he was to be seen standing upright, more out of the turret than in, issuing orders and calling in the range. The young Panzer-grenadiers accompanying the tanks took heart in his bravery and were inspired. But the older heads among the tank crews knew better. They didn’t question his courage except in one respect. They knew the real problem. Clearly, their commander would rather be killed than set foot once more inside a tank.
