by Derek Hansen
‘And what might that be?’
‘I don’t believe you are any closer to understanding your enemy than you were when you arrived. You know their numbers and disposition, their armaments and affiliations, but what have you learned about the men themselves? Who are they, these partisans? How determined are they? What is the picture you carry in your mind of the typical partisan? How true is it? You see, Herr Oberstleutnant, you can find the answer to all these questions right here at the table. If you only ask.’
‘Cecilia, that is enough! You are dismissed.’
‘Wait! Count d’Alatri, I feel I provoked Cecilia’s response and it was entirely justified.’ He put his head back and began to laugh. It came easily and naturally and soon it infected everyone. ‘Everything she said is true. I came here hoping to learn more about the nature of the partisan and all I have succeeded in doing is confirming what I already know. I have been in the company of soldiers too much and women not enough. Cecilia, please forgive my arrogance. Now tell me the answers to the questions I should have asked.’ The commandant had enormous charm and used it. Cecilia could feel herself begin to wilt. But this was her one chance, and she couldn’t let it slip by.
‘In this winter just passed, many partisans in the hills died of cold and hunger. The others barely survived. Those who survived have grown hard. They lead a desperate existence, hiding by day and moving by night. They are being hunted down relentlessly by your troops and by our Blackshirts. So they are always on the move. And with every day and every hardship their hatred and resentment grows. They are fighting for their homes, for their wives and families, and for Italy. The one reason for their existence is to destroy fascism and drive out the German army. Of course, some fight for one political flag or another, but mostly they fight for their families. They are our mortal enemies and they are very determined. Many of them are trained soldiers hardened in battle. Others are mere boys who ran away to avoid conscription or being sent away to Germany. But don’t underestimate them either. It is impossible to survive in those hills without becoming a man very quickly. They also have a strong leader.’
‘Cecilia that is enough. You sound like one of them. Where did you learn all this nonsense?’
‘Count, these men are your enemies. Therefore they are my enemies. I hear this from the staff. Whenever somebody goes to the village or down to Menaggio, they come back with more stories about the partisans. If the Oberstleutnant wants to understand them, he needs to know this.’
‘Please, Count d’Alatri. Allow Cecilia to continue. Tell me about the leader.’
‘Cecilia …’
She heard the Count’s warning and the undercurrent of menace but chose to ignore it. She had the Oberstleutnant’s wholehearted attention and there lay her strength. ‘The leader of the local partisan group was a tank machine-gunner. He fought in Abyssinia and in Libya. He is very smart and cunning, and he despises fascism. He is passionate in his beliefs and will not compromise them. When he joined the partisans he left his wife and child behind because they did not share his beliefs. He loves both of them dearly, yet he was prepared to abandon them because they were still loyal to Mussolini. He is a hard man and a strong man, the sort you’d much rather have by your side than as your enemy.’
‘You obviously know this man?’
‘Yes, Herr Oberstleutnant, I do. After Mussolini and the Count, he was the man I most admired in the whole world.’
‘You know him that well?’
Cecilia could hear the Count squirming in his seat.
‘Yes. Before he betrayed us he was our friend. He worked here at the Villa Carosio. His wife is the Count’s housekeeper, Signora Mila.’
‘It’s true.’ The Count jumped in to justify his position. ‘It is not news to anyone else at this table. He is a traitor but the Signora and her daughter are proof of the strength and greatness of fascism. They put Il Duce ahead of their husband and father. I respect that and I am not in the habit of allowing loyalty to pass unrewarded.’
‘Very laudable and honourable of you, Count d’Alatri. You are to be commended.’ The commandant was both well mannered and skilled in conversation. His words expressed all the right sentiments and were exactly what the Count wished to hear. But Cecilia could see that other matters preoccupied him.
‘This man, Mila. He fought in tanks, you say? In the western desert?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me, do you know if he suffered a head wound around February last year?’
Cecilia’s jaw fell open. She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. ‘Yes. I helped to nurse him back to health.’
‘Then he must be Guido Mila. I know him.’
Cecilia’s wide eyes and open mouth gave him all the confirmation he needed. He laughed once more. ‘Ha! I wondered if I would ever meet him again. I should compliment you. Your description of him was very accurate. Cecilia, you are a mine of information. I have learned more from you than I have from all the conversations I have had since I arrived. Guido Mila, eh? There will be no complaints now about the image I carry in my head of the partisan. He is precisely defined. Cecilia, we must meet and talk again.’ He stood abruptly. But for the last exchange of courtesies, dinner had concluded.
Chapter Twenty-eight
From the day her husband chose to join the partisans, the Signora seemed to become more committed to her religion. It was understandable, the war had reawakened the faith in many Italians. While she still attended the church in Menaggio every Sunday with the Count and the rest of the staff, two and three times a week she’d climb the hill to Ravello and pray to the Holy Mother, beseeching her to watch over her husband. Those who witnessed her piety felt nothing but compassion for her. The truth was, Guido had been lucky to survive as long as he had and, unless the war came to a speedy conclusion, his luck would inevitably run out. Under-armed, under-fed and always weary, the partisans suffered fearful losses. Every time she visited the little church in Ravello she would also confess her sins. Nobody thought to question why the Signora should feel the need to confess two or three times a week.
In the gloom of the confessional, she told Father Michele of her sins, and whatever information she’d been able to gather about supply convoys and troop movements. In return he gave her light penance—her sins were few—and news of Guido. He gave her messages to pass on to the families of other partisans who accepted them without questioning her source. On this day, however, the Signora told Father Michele about the dinners at the Villa Carosio and the good fortune that had placed Cecilia at the table. She told him how Cecilia had succeeded in winning the new commandant’s confidence and friendship, and the hopes she had for the quality and quantity of information she could provide. The Signora could no more keep the pride out of her voice than her confessor could his astonishment. They parted with the usual blessing.
That night at seven o’clock, he rang the church bell. Seven slow, ponderous beats to mark the hour … a pause … then another … and another. At any other time, the parishioners might have wondered about the eccentric time-keeping of the priest, but lately they’d become accustomed to the bell’s erratic behaviour. They’d learned to count each peal up until the pause and ignore any others, should there be any. But higher up in the hills other ears listened, and any variation was passed on to others who passed it on to others until it reached the high summer pastures. One extra peal meant a rendezvous, two demanded Guido’s presence.
Father Michele woke at five and went straight to his back door. He looked down at the step where generations of priests had worn a hollow in the stone. In the middle, like a sparrow’s egg in an eagle’s nest was a single, smooth pebble. Some brave soul had breached curfew to let him know that the meeting was on. He sighed grimly and prepared himself for the rigours ahead. He glanced over to the east where the first fingers of dawn reached for clouds that weren’t to be found. A light breeze touched him but he ignored its chill. It would get warm soon and then, if the breeze failed to pick up,
uncomfortably hot, particularly for anyone foolish enough to climb the mountains.
Father Michele would have made a good soldier but for his vocation. In his mid-thirties and the peak of health, he was a prime candidate for conscription. But he believed in the commandments and didn’t believe that the politics of men overruled the laws of God. For years he kept himself apart from the war and ministered equally to anyone in need, regardless of the uniform they wore. Eventually the excesses of the fascists and the Germans, and the suffering they wrought upon his flock made him take sides. He now saw the war in the context of the eternal battle between the forces of good and evil, and believed the church should no longer stand by. When Guido had slipped down from the hills one night and asked him to become a conduit between the partisans and their supporters in the village, he’d agreed without hesitation. But the nature of some of the information he carried troubled him deeply. He knew that it would often result in the deaths of young men and that he bore part of the responsibility for those deaths. But what could he do? He bore the fifth commandment like a cross.
His vocation gave him a singular advantage over other men. On the pretext of serving his outlying parishioners he could roam the hillsides at will. Occasionally he would encounter a Blackshirt patrol. They’d ask to look inside the haversack he carried and always found no more or less than they expected. Of course, they suspected he had contact with the partisans, but he also had a legitimate reason for being there. Once or twice they’d followed him, and he’d spent a fruitless day dropping in on the surprised old men and boys tending the sheep and goats, and the herds of small, grey-coloured cattle.
Father Michele set out at first light, his haversack weighed down with his Bible, a pouch with the Eucharist, his stole, two one-litre bottles of water, half a kilo of cheese and a loaf of bread. He would have liked to take more bread to the partisans or some white flour because he knew how starved they were for carbohydrates. But if he encountered a patrol, nothing could more clearly signal his intentions. He made rapid progress in the cool mountain air, anxious to put as much distance behind him as he could before the sun became too hot. For once he was oblivious to God’s annual miracle, the reawakening of nature. He ignored the new shoots and the budding leaves and the birds’ morning song. Instead he was consumed by the conflict raging inside his head. That morning his cross was especially heavy. He climbed up the lower pastures and into the pine forest which ran like a belt across the hillside on slopes too steep for cultivation. While it was cooler in among the trees the going was hard, and he was glad when he was through them and out onto the rock-strewn summer pastures.
‘Good morning, Father.’
The voice took him completely by surprise and he whirled around. His mind raced as it considered possibilities. Who could it be? How could he have allowed himself to be so distracted? He’d made a beeline for the rendezvous without checking to see if he was being followed and without making any attempt to disguise his route. He recognised the big man the moment he moved out from behind the rock that sheltered him.
‘Piero. You startled me.’
‘If you were a rabbit and I a fox you would now be my breakfast.’
Father Michele accepted the rebuke, shamefaced at his lack of caution.
‘And you, Piero? Who was it this time?’
‘Jews.’
‘You’ve booked your place in heaven, Piero.’
‘So long as they’re not expecting me soon.’ The two men laughed. Father Michele pulled a bottle out of his haversack and offered it to the big man. He took a few grateful swallows and handed the bottle back.
‘Grazie.’
‘Piero …’
‘I know what you’re going to say and I will give you the answer I always give. When the war is finished I will come and confess. It may take a whole day, so be warned. But I will not confess and seek absolution now for deeds I will only repeat later. I am not yet sorry for the things I do.’
The priest reached out his hand and placed it on the older man’s shoulder. ‘You’re a good man. May God care and look after you, at least until I hear your confession.’
Piero laughed. ‘Today I am indestructible. I also have the God of the Jews looking after me. Goodbye, Father, and God take care of you, too. Whichever God takes care of rabbits.’
Father Michele watched Piero make his way wearily down the mountain hugging the shadows, and wondered how many kilometres his aging legs had covered that night. The encounter had been salutary. He put his problems aside and concentrated on the task ahead. It was high time the rabbit assumed the cloak of a fox. He climbed steadily, crisscrossing gullys along paths worn by sheep and shepherd. The trees thinned out and what few remained offered little relief from the sun. He reached the rendezvous point, where coarse mountain grass and lichen fought each other for a toehold, and sat down. His legs ached from effort and he struggled to suck in lungfuls of air. He knew the partisans were there already, somewhere, watching to see if he was followed. His heavy soutane was stained with his sweat. He took out his bottle of water, swallowed deeply to make up for the fluids he’d lost, and lay back exhausted. How did the men cope who roamed these hills day after day? His tiredness and the hot sun made him drowsy. He offered little resistance and quickly succumbed.
‘Is this what you call God’s work, Father?’
‘Guido …’ Had he been asleep? How long?
‘You wish to speak to me.’
Father Michele looked up. Guido was standing over him. His eyes were tired and wary, and sunk deep into their sockets. Suffering was etched into every line of his face. How long had it been since they’d last met? Five months? His clothes hung limply, as if borrowed from a larger man. The priest was shocked by how much weight he’d lost.
‘It’s been a hard winter, Father.’ Guido smiled grimly. ‘I can see what you’re thinking. How are my family?’ He sat down beside the priest.
‘They are well and send you their love. And a message.’
‘Yes.’
‘The girl Cecilia, you know her?’
‘Yes, I know her.’
‘Do you trust her?’
‘I trust her.’
‘Then let me tell you why I needed to see you.’ Father Michele told him all about the dinners at the Villa Carosio and how Cecilia had come to be invited to attend them. The partisan’s eyes widened in astonishment and delight. ‘She is in a position to cultivate the new commandant,’ he continued. ‘If she is as clever as your wife seems to think she is, there will be nothing the Germans or Blackshirts can do that we won’t know about.’
‘It is a godsend.’
‘Perhaps, but I think you should be aware of … of … of complications.’
‘What sort of complications?’
‘The girl is putting herself at tremendous risk. It is up to us to afford her as much protection as we can. It is vital that as few people as possible know about her role. Already three people know. You, your wife and me. That is enough. No one else must know.’
‘Agreed. But what is the complication?’
Father Michele hesitated, searching for the right words. ‘When you found me here, you asked me if this was God’s work? The answer is yes, it is. And I am a man of God. You asked me to be your go-between and I have never shirked my responsibilities. But I must draw the line between carrying messages and sending young boys and men to their deaths. We both know what you will do with the information Cecilia provides. You will ambush patrols and strike hard at supply columns you know are poorly defended. You will kill more Germans and Blackshirts because of Cecilia’s information. I will not be her conduit. I will not be instrumental in killing.’
‘What about the partisan lives her information will save? All you will be doing, Father, is altering the balance. More of my men will be saved, more of the enemy will be killed. Good men will still be killed either way, whether you bring the information or not. Isn’t it better that they be the enemy?’ Guido’s voice was hard, bordering on contempt
.
‘I hear what you say. God knows I’ve thought about nothing else since your wife came to see me. But my mind is made up. I will not be instrumental in more killing.’
‘Do you think any of us are here by choice, Father? Do you think any of us want to live up here? Do you think we enjoy shooting people? Do you think we enjoy dropping burning bottles of fuel onto trucks? Do you think any of us enjoy this killing? This is war, Father, and war deprives people of choice.’ Guido’s voice rose in anger until he was shouting. ‘We didn’t ask for war! We were given war! What makes you so special? Why do you have choice and we don’t? Because the only way the killing is going to stop is if they kill all of us, or if we kill enough of them so that they leave!’ He glared at the priest, but he could see he was wasting his words. He turned and spat into the dust. ‘Is that all you have to say or do you have a proposal?’
‘The girl will have to talk to you herself. You will have to arrange to meet her further down the mountain.’
‘You know what you are asking.’
‘Yes. It will be very dangerous for both of you.’
‘But we have no choice.’
‘No. I’m sorry.’
‘So am I, Father. I will find a meeting place and send word. Goodbye, Father.’
‘God be with you, Guido. Oh, here is something for you. No more than usual.’ He handed him the bread and cheese, and the empty water bottles. ‘I wish you hadn’t told me what you use these for.’
‘And I wish the Germans dropped a bomb on your parents’ house,’ Guido said bitterly. ‘Then you’d have no trouble bringing me Cecilia’s messages. Then you’d have no trouble bringing us bottles. Dear God! Don’t you think the girl’s taking enough risks?’
‘I know you don’t mean that, Guido, and anyway, you’re wrong. Please, my friend, I hear your disappointment and wish with all my heart that there was some other way. Please don’t let us part as enemies.’
