by Derek Hansen
‘So is our storyteller,’ cut in Milos.
‘Yes, well done, Lucio. You’ve given us a lot to think about over the coming week. I must admit I’m intrigued to know how long the Oberstleutnant has known Colombina’s true identity and what he thinks her motives for lying may be. It must be terrible to be caught telling lies by someone who regards you as a trusting friend. What do you say, Lucio?’
‘What can I say, Ramon?’ Lucio said evenly. ‘When somebody tells lies they must be prepared to face the consequences if they’re found out.’
‘Are you prepared, Lucio?’
‘Have I told lies?’
‘Ramon,’ cut in Milos. ‘You are like a cracked record and they are best thrown away.’
‘Thank you for your simile. I was merely offering Lucio ground to manoeuvre, room to correct any misunderstandings he may have inadvertently given.’
‘He has refused your kind offer, no? So drop it.’
Ramon shrugged. Lucio’s ending to the day’s storytelling had surprised him. The old man was obviously on his guard. That wouldn’t make things any easier for Colombina. Perhaps he’d been too hasty in leaping to conclusions. Maybe it was he who hadn’t been listening as well as he should. Either that or Lucio was a far cleverer storyteller than he gave him credit for.
SIXTH THURSDAY
‘Before Lucio takes us back to Lombardia, I am going to take you there.’ Gancio spread his arms wide. ‘Today everything on the menu is from Lombardia. Everyone who eats here today is eating in Lombardia. If anyone wants spaghetti bolognaise they’ll have to eat somewhere else.’
‘Do we assume from this that today’s story will centre around Como?’
‘Yes, Ramon,’ Lucio said evenly. ‘You know it does. You can see further ahead of a story than even the storyteller.’
‘What about Colombina and Heinrich, or is he now Friedrich?’
‘We’ll get to them.’
‘Soon?’
‘When I’m ready. Now let Gancio tell us all about the treats he has in store for us.’ Lucio smiled inwardly, a smile of satisfaction. Ramon was coming along nicely.
‘We begin with bresaola, cured dried beef served wafer thin with olive oil and pepper. It was a perfect food for the partisans because it didn’t spoil. Unfortunately, they only had it when they had money to buy a cow, and time to slaughter it and to cure it. Then polenta taragna, buckwheat polenta served with butter and cheese. Polenta was a staple food for the partisans but they couldn’t get enough corn to make that either so they used to stretch it with pine tree sawdust, sometimes flour if they could get it, and barley husks. Mostly they ate it cold because they didn’t want to attract the attention of the Germans by lighting fires. They didn’t have butter either. So they ate it cold and rock hard with a parmesan cheese. Sometimes they’d try to soften it up with milk. It tasted like shit but it filled stomachs.’
‘Jesus, Gancio, what are you doing to us?’
‘Relax, Neil, you are not a partisan and my polenta is famous. Besides, I have made a special meat dish for you, rostin negaa, veal chops braised in white wine.’
‘That’s more like it.’
‘The rest of you will have something special—foiolo, tripe cooked with butter and onions and served with grated cheese. It is delicious. During the war the people in the villages often didn’t have the money to buy meat and so they had to make do with tripe. But in Lombardia, we are very good with tripe. You’ll see.’
‘I’ll stick to my chops.’
‘As we knew you would. God only knows how bored your taste buds must be. Afterwards, a little formaggio. Gorgonzola of course, and stracchino which is made from the milk of tired cows. Strecco is a local word for tired. The cows get tired on the long walk down from the alpine pastures. It’s a nice, smooth, full-flavoured cheese. To finish, torta paradiso, sponge cake. I wanted to make you busecchina which is boiled chestnuts and cream. The partisans sometimes boiled chestnuts on their little primus cookers, or when it was safe to light fires but they had to eat them without the cream.’
‘Bravo, Gancio.’ Lucio sat back and applauded the menu. ‘It is entirely appropriate to the story I will be telling today.’
‘Yeah, nice bit of cooking, Gancio,’ cut in Neil. ‘But why do I get the feeling you two are cooking up something more than lunch?’
‘More to the point,’ said Ramon quietly, ‘how come you know so much about what the partisans ate?’
Chapter Thirty-one
Cecilia and Guido became lovers. Some claimed it was inevitable, that she had designs on him from the first day they met, and they’d point to the way that she’d never missed an opportunity to sit and talk to him. It’s true that Cecilia was fond of him and had grown to love him, but it was more the childish crush a girl might feel for her teacher than adult passion. More accurately it could be argued that their affair was a by-product of the war, begun as an act of kindness to a lonely, desperate man, or as a means of bringing comfort to one another in the face of shared dangers. But the end result was the same. They became lovers and once more Cecilia was destined to bear the blame.
She was horrified when the Signora passed on Father Michele’s message but did her best to conceal her fear. The idea of breaking curfew and sneaking out of the house alone in the dead of night to climb to a secret rendezvous in the hills terrified her. But how could she refuse the Signora? If Father Michele wouldn’t act as courier, she had no choice. She knew how important her information was to Guido. The Signora named three meeting places where the lower pastures met the forest, none much more than five kilometres above her old home. Each place had a codename which would change each time she met with Guido, so only the two of them would ever know exactly where the next rendezvous would take place. Cecilia knew she could find her way to these meeting points in the dark provided she didn’t come across any patrols or escapees or deserters. That’s what worried her most. What chance would a young woman alone have then?
The first night she crept out of the sleeping house she would never have known if she was being followed or not. The pounding of her heart made her deaf to the inadvertent snapping of twigs or any other sound that didn’t belong naturally to the night. She skirted around Ravello and the farm houses she knew had dogs and avoided open spaces. Her breathing was strained, not so much from exertion as from fear. She paused every two hundred metres as she’d been told, to listen for pursuers, but all she heard was her own breathing. She kept clear of the shepherds’ overnight huts and the outlying stables, which often provided welcome shelter for fugitives and were a target for patrols. She climbed and climbed until genuine tiredness softened the edges of her fears and her brain could begin to function almost normally. As she drew closer and closer to the rendezvous point she paused again to listen. When she heard nothing, she continued. But the closer she got to the shallow cave the more desperate she became for Guido’s protection. She ignored all her warnings and scrabbled forward as fast as she could. She reached the mouth of the cave. ‘Guido!’ she called. But there was no response. She peered into the gloom trying to penetrate its depths. ‘Guido?’ she asked again softly. Again there was no reply. She began to panic. Surely not. Surely her efforts hadn’t been for nothing. He had to be there! ‘Guido?’ she asked once more. Tears began to well up in her eyes. She couldn’t believe it had all been in vain and she still had the return journey ahead of her. She began to sob.
‘What is the point of having passwords if you don’t use them?’
‘Guido!’ She spun around and threw herself sobbing into his arms. She clung on to him fiercely, pressing herself tightly against him until he responded in kind. He bent down and kissed her, the top of her head, her cheeks then her lips. She responded hungrily until he gently eased her away.
‘Oh Guido, I was so frightened. You weren’t here …’
‘I was here waiting for the password. I listened to you climb up here.’
They’d picked their rendezvous well, tucked away in a hollow
sheltered by trees. Even so, some pale moonlight managed to filter through and Cecilia could clearly make out the face in front of her. Her heart went out to him.
‘Romeo.’
‘And I reply?’
‘Margherita.’
He laughed. ‘Well, Margherita, what news do you have for your Romeo?’
Cecilia told him everything the commandant had told them over lunch and, as she did, she saw his face grow hard.
‘Dear God,’ he said finally. ‘I thought we were over the worst. I thought now at least we would have some respite. Still, now that we know what they plan we can take counter measures. If we strike first maybe we’ll force them to change their plans.’
Cecilia studied his face with eyes grown accustomed to the dark and could scarcely believe how much Guido had aged. She saw that the news had hit him badly. Once more he would have to dig deep to find the strength to fight on.
‘Dates, places. Do you think you could find out?’
‘Of course I will try.’
‘You’re a brave girl, Cecilia.’ He squeezed her to him and in that gesture Cecilia felt his loneliness and his despair. She hugged him back, reached up and kissed him. It was a signal, a beginning, and both knew where it would lead them but neither did a thing to prevent it. They sank gently to the ground where lichen and moss made a soft bed for them. What began as a tender kiss gave way to the full flood of passion and for the first time Cecilia experienced the urgent caresses and pleasure of a lover of her choice. They took each other hungrily and noisily, with an urgency born of desperate times, almost in blind panic. But it wasn’t enough. They’d barely rested before Cecilia began again. She rolled on top of him and unbuttoned her blouse, making him a present of her breasts. She took him inside her impatiently, urgently seeking the fulfilment she needed and cried out when she found it. For Cecilia the experience of her first climax with a man was overwhelming and her emotions ran riot. She loved Guido more then than she ever believed it was possible to love anyone. She wept and held on to him and never wanted to let him go. Neither considered the consequences nor questioned its permanence.
Who could blame Guido for succumbing? He’d been denied the love and warmth of his wife and daughter and the comforts of any woman. He lived each day on the run like a wild animal, hunted and hounded, depending for his life on his guile and his willingness to endure. Cecilia gave him something every bit as precious as the food they managed to buy and scrounge, and the arms and medical supplies dropped by the Americans. She gave him love, a balm for his soul, sustenance for his will, and a reminder of why he persevered. Along with her information she brought comfort and who could say which had the greater value?
Cecilia returned down the mountain and, rather than being fearful of her next foray, waited eagerly for the signal. That evening had established a pattern which she knew would be continued. She loved him and boldly believed he loved her equally. In a strange way, perhaps to allay her feelings of guilt, she saw herself as an extension of the Signora and Carmela, delivering in person the love they were unable to share. She never considered what would happen when the Signora and Guido were eventually reunited. At any event she felt neither shame nor regrets, nor gave Signora Mila any cause for suspicion. Guido simply became another part of her life, the part that took place on the mountainside, remote from anything else and irrelevant to her relationship with the Signora and Carmela. But nobody can so compartmentalise their life that they become entirely disassociated episodes. Cecilia played many different roles but they were interrelated and impacted upon each other in ways not easy to predict.
Ironically, Cecilia’s relationship with Guido depended upon a continuing involvement with the Oberstleutnant. If she was not immediately aware of his ultimate intentions, the Count summoned her to his study and made them abundantly clear.
‘The commandant is joining us for lunch once more,’ he chortled. ‘He pretends it’s me he wants to see but it’s you, Cecilia. Ha! The man’s fallen for you. Head over heels. You can see it, he’s smitten. Well, what are we going to do about it? I don’t want to spend my few remaining years as a gooseberry in the middle. I’m going to let him know that I give him my permission to court you. It’s up to you, Cecilia, now to do your duty. And I want to know everything that happens. Everything!’
‘No. I’m sorry, Count, but that is impossible.’
‘What do you mean? I forbid you to refuse him!’
‘Count, I have no intention of refusing him. But I have every intention of refusing you.’ She laughed and put her arm around the Count’s thin shoulders. ‘What happens between two people is their affair. It is private. For example, I have never told anyone about what used to pass between the two of us. Would you prefer I did?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘You see? If the Oberstleutnant and I become lovers—and I’m not as certain as you that that is what he is after—then you can rest assured that your secrets are as safe with me … as are his.’ She smiled.
‘Ha! Signor Calosci warned me that you are a clever little vixen and you are. Now you blackmail me. Who taught you to be so devious? Ha! It must have been me. Ah … what does it matter? I’m too old now anyway. After you’ve done your duty at least entertain me with an edited version.’
‘Perhaps, but Count, remember that rewards should not be given without effort. And the greater the effort the greater the appreciation of the reward. Would you deny the commandant full appreciation of his reward? Surely it is my duty to heighten his appreciation to the fullest?’
The Count laughed. ‘Then God help him!’
Cecilia began to see the Oberstleutnant. Mostly twice a week but sometimes three when the Count entertained. They ate in the local restaurants and occasionally in the barracks. One day Friedrich commandeered the mayor’s motor launch and took her out onto the lake for a cruise. He was stunned to learn that she’d never been out on the lake before. She loved it. They visited Bellagio and Ravenna which she’d looked upon all her life and yet knew little about. He bought a guide book and they became tourists. They discovered the Villa Giulia, the retreat of Leopold the First, King of the Belgians, and the Villa Serbelloni. They crossed back to Tremezzo and strolled through the gardens of the Villa Carlotta. But what gave the Oberstleutnant the greatest pleasure was the discovery of the Villa Margherita where Verdi had composed La Traviata almost a hundred years earlier. From then on they took the little boat out whenever they could, often on the warm summer evenings.
For Cecilia it was a duty, but it became a very pleasant duty. If her heart didn’t already belong to another, it could easily have fallen into his hands. He was precisely the sort of person her mother hoped she’d meet and marry. He was handsome, witty, clever and oh so charming. He made her feel special and important. Where once she’d have thought herself lucky to wait upon his table, he now held her chair for her and entertained her with his stories.
He told her about Christiane and Helmuth and it was plain to see how much he adored them both. She liked him all the more for that. He was kind and patient. She was grateful for his patience and the fact that he hadn’t forced his affections upon her, but her gratitude blinded her to the dangers. She knew the value of prolonging the chase. She’d even flaunted its merits to the Count. But she failed totally to see that its appeal also worked in reverse. As the weeks passed and grew into months, she became increasingly attached to him.
Of course, in a small town their relationship could hardly go unnoticed. People who used to exchange greetings with her at church or in the street now ignored her and worse, hissed softly as she passed. But she dismissed this and bore the insults with dignity. After the war, she would be revealed not as a collaborator but as a brave heroine. Guido never ceased to remind her of the fact. She had every right to hold her head high.
Once a fortnight and sometimes twice, she’d slip out at night and into the hills, bearing her precious information. She became skilled in hugging the shadows and avoiding humps or rid
ges which could silhouette her against the night sky. But more than anything she learned to listen. She became familiar with the night noises, associating each with a particular animal or trick of the wind. She learned to listen for the night birds and to take alarm at their absence. Silence, she learned, often warned of the presence of others, and she’d hide and wait until she’d heard them pass. Whether friend or foe, she had no intention of letting them find her. Her confidence grew and so did her caution.
Increasingly it was duty not her love for Guido which drew her back, for she could no longer be certain of meeting him. The risks were just too high. At any time it was dangerous for partisans to come down from the heights where they were safe. But with the increased activity of the German soldiers and fascists as they tried to carry out their commandant’s instructions, the risk of being shot or caught had trebled. More and more often, Guido sent his trusted lieutenant in his place. The first time, Cecilia had been heartbroken and found it hard to hide her disappointment. The man who simply identified himself as il ascia, the axe, had laughed at her then grabbed her, suggesting she gave him what she normally gave Guido. He tried to force her down onto the ground but she kicked out and slapped him. He called her a bitch and a whore and asked when she’d become choosy. Everyone knew she was also fucking the Oberstleutnant.
Cecilia was humiliated and blamed Guido for allowing it to happen the next time she saw him. To her surprise and mortification he just shrugged. ‘These are desperate times,’ was all he’d said. ‘And he is a desperate man. It is a long time since he has had a woman. But I will speak to him.’
That was not the reaction Cecilia had hoped for. That was not the reaction of a lover whose best friend had betrayed his trust. She’d expected him to rage and threaten to kill him. She’d expected sympathy and comfort. Instead she had the distinct impression that Guido would not have minded greatly if she had extended her comfort to his lieutenant. When Guido lay his coat on the ground for them to lie on, there was no sweet preamble, no prior exchange of endearments. What had once seemed special had become a habit and expected. Nevertheless she’d lain with him but it was a coupling from which she drew little satisfaction.
