by Derek Hansen
As soon as the dinner concluded, she sought out the Signora and told her to arrange a rendezvous. Signora Mila did not disguise her delight with Cecilia. She grabbed her and hugged her and let her tears of gratitude fall openly. Cecilia thought of the nightmare climb ahead of her, of the patrols that would be stepped up as a precaution, and the ever present threat of storms. She began shivering and the warmth of the Signora’s gratitude could not stop the icy shudders rippling through her body. She went to bed fearful for herself, for Guido and for the Oberstleutnant.
But fate had another card to play, one which would begin to tear apart the walls that separated the different parts of her life. It was inevitable, of course. Sooner or later the contents of each compartment had to spill over, one into the other. For Cecilia, the time was fast approaching.
She awoke the following morning with a light headache and put it down to a restless night during which all her fears manifested themselves in nightmarish dreams, until she was too scared to close her eyes. Only exhaustion had brought what little sleep she’d had. By evening, when Father Michele’s bell pealed confusingly across the hillside, her headache had intensified and her limbs grown heavy. The soreness in her throat and her watery eyes were symptoms easily recognised, and her sickness too obvious to be ignored. Cecilia, brave heroine of the partisans and all Italy, had caught a cold.
While the soldiers prepared their trap in Menaggio, Cecilia lay in bed and briefed the Signora. There was no choice. Father Michele still refused to carry information that would lead directly to the deaths of others, and they didn’t dare involve anyone else in their secret. Cecilia painstakingly explained the location of the rendezvous and the best route to get there, cautioning her to take the safer, more roundabout path which avoided open meadows, even though it would add more than an hour to her journey. She gave the Signora the passwords and insisted that she wear the coat and hat she herself normally wore. ‘Guido will be expecting me,’ she explained. ‘If you don’t look like me he might suspect a trap and withdraw.’ On the evening of the rendezvous, she told the Signora the details of Dietrich’s plan.
It was simplicity itself. The idea was to draw the partisans out so that they revealed their main force, which would then be encircled. The Oberstleutnant was to drive to Porlezza on the eastern tip of Lake Lugano the day before to collect captured partisans, deserters and Jews, many of whom had escaped the Germans and Blackshirts only to be turned back by Swiss border guards. The following morning he would return accompanied by two covered trucks filled with soldiers, and the prisoners in a covered truck between them. His Lancia would head the convoy. Another armed convoy would precede them by ten minutes, with an armoured car clearing the road ahead of it. Instead of a normal armament shipment, the enclosed trucks would carry more soldiers. Meanwhile, the SS would make a very public withdrawal from Menaggio, making it plain to anyone who cared to listen that the winter conditions were unsuitable for a rastrellamento and they were returning to the front. Instead, they would drive south to Argegno and double back overnight on secondary roads around the southern shore of Lake Lugarno. They’d hole up on a deserted stretch of road near Porlezza and wait until they received the signal that the Oberstleutnant had left. Then they would pursue them, again allowing a ten-minute gap between. The Blackshirts meanwhile would be trucked into positions on by-roads north and south of the highway, ready to come to the assistance of the commandant.
Dietrich believed that sympathisers would inform the partisans of the two convoys and that the second would prove irresistible. After all, how often did they get the chance to kill the area commandant and free their own captured men? The force accompanying the prisoners was strong enough to require attack by the main body of partisans, but not so strong that it would be a deterrent. He expected the partisans to follow their usual practice of strike and fade, hitting the convoy and retreating up into the hills. But this time they would be trapped. The instant the ambush occurred, Friedrich would radio the codeword and troops from both the preceding and following convoys would immediately disembark, and set off on converging courses up the hillsides. The partisans would then be surrounded on both flanks, and from below by the survivors of Friedrich’s force and the Blackshirts coming to their assistance. The final nail in the coffin would be provided by a spotter plane which, weather permitting, would plot the partisans’ retreat.
The Signora listened grimly to how the SS planned to kill her husband. If she’d had any reservations about making the hazardous trip, she had none now. She knew that Guido could not resist the chance to free his men. Everyone knew what happened once the Gestapo and the fascist interrogators got hold of them. Of course Guido would try to save them. She looked at the sick girl in the bed in front of her and took her hands in hers.
‘I thank God for sending you to us, Cecilia. Think how many lives this information will save, Guido’s among them. Next time I see your mother I’m going to give her a big hug.’
Cecilia laughed just thinking of her mother’s surprise. But the day was not yet won nor the information delivered. She knew the risks the Signora faced. God help them all if she was caught. ‘Go carefully, Signora. Remember, time is your ally, speed is your enemy. Never hesitate to stop and listen. In this weather you won’t have the birds to warn you.’ She squeezed the Signora’s hands. As she left her bedroom, Cecilia lay back in bed and wondered if Guido would also lay down his coat for his wife. That was one aspect she hadn’t considered, not even for a second.
The Signora waited nervously for the staff to finish up in the kitchen and go to bed. On these bleak winter nights there was nothing for them to stay up for. She heard footsteps on the stairs up to the servants’ rooms, some hushed ‘good nights’, then silence. She slipped into Cecilia’s coat and hat and slid quietly out the back door. The cold hit her as solidly as if she’d plunged into an icy stream. She glanced up at the sky and saw the hard twinkle of winter stars. It would be bitterly cold but at least it wouldn’t snow. She hesitated to give her eyes a chance to become accustomed to the darkness before moving on. But the darkness was near total. She hadn’t expected it to be so dark. She felt the first twinge of panic. Would she be able to find her way?
She opened the side gate, grateful for remembering to tell Roberto to oil its hinges. She crept down the narrow laneway to the meadow which marked the beginning of her climb. She’d hardly made it halfway along before she tripped and fell headlong onto the ground. She cried out in surprise. Dear God! Had anyone heard her? She’d hardly begun and she’d fallen already. It was just so dark, so hopelessly dark. She considered the magnitude of the task ahead and knew it was beyond her. How could she help but fail? How could she find a secret place she’d never been before when she couldn’t even see her own hand in front of her face? Bitter tears flooded her eyes. She had to go on, however hopeless, for Guido’s sake. She couldn’t fail him. She gathered her breath and her wits and prepared to pick herself up.
‘Signora!’ The whisper came soft and urgent and scared her out of her wits. She lay there, not daring to breathe.
‘Signora, it is Piero.’
She felt his hands under her arms helping her to her feet. She was surprised at the old man’s strength.
‘Piero, what are you doing here?’ She only whispered but the force of it in the still night air made it sound almost like a shout.
‘Signora, keep your voice down. Better still, keep your mouth shut. I will do the talking. Do you think I don’t know what’s going on? I have been following Cecilia off and on since spring to make sure no harm came to her. I don’t know who she meets because I stop once she gets near to her meeting places. It would be too dangerous for me to go on. I assume whomever she meets has lookouts, too. I don’t know who she meets but I can guess and I think I know why she goes. She is a remarkable young girl. I have learned to associate her trips with a particular ringing of Father Michele’s bell. Now that Cecilia has a cold, I assumed you would go in her place. When I heard you’d told Ro
berto to oil the gate I was sure. So I’ve waited for you. Signora. On a night like this, you would never make it on your own. Now tell me, where are you going? I will take you.’
The Signora hesitated. It could be a trap. After all, Piero had just been released by the Gestapo—an event rare in itself—so perhaps there’d been a trade-off. Information for his freedom. She tried to look into his face to search for the truth there, but the darkness would not permit it. If he knew about Cecilia, perhaps he was setting her up so they could also catch Guido. She considered her options and realised she had no choice. She could never find Guido without Piero’s help, she was now certain of that, and if she didn’t find him to give him the message he was doomed anyway. ‘Okay,’ she said, and told him. But as she told him, she realised how much she was asking of Piero. The man was still covered in bruises from his beatings and barely out of bed. ‘Piero,’ she said when she’d finished, ‘Are you sure you are up to this? You’ve done enough.’
‘Ha! What is a little pain compared to the pleasure of revenge? Guido will give them a beating in return. That will be my revenge.’ He spat on the ground. ‘Come along. Stay close behind me.’
They set off at a pace that staggered the Signora. It was all she could do to keep up with the dark shape in front of her. Piero moved as assuredly up the hills as most people did down their hallways. He seemed to know every bush, rock and overhanging branch and, more importantly, how to avoid them. They climbed until her breath rasped and she could no longer climb silently. Piero paused then briefly, to listen and give her time to recover. But the halt gave the seeping cold a chance to envelop them and they had to move on before it cramped their muscles. The Signora could feel herself begin to perspire and knew the dangers as her sweat dampened her underclothes. Wet clothes and cold were a potentially fatal combination. They climbed and climbed until she’d lost track completely of where they were and she could think of nothing else but her blind pursuit of the shapeless form in front of her. Then he stopped and pulled her to him. He held her so tightly and crushed her face so hard against his coat she couldn’t breathe. What on earth was he doing? She wanted to scream. Was he trying to kill her? Then she heard a voice, muted and curt. She didn’t understand the words but she recognised the language. German. She pressed herself harder against Piero, trying to melt into him, wanting to become invisible, wishing to be anywhere else but where she was. Piero stood as motionless as stone, waiting until his ears told him it was safe to proceed.
He gently eased himself apart from the Signora and continued the climb, more cautious now. A German patrol was unusual. Whatever information the Signora was carrying, the Germans were doing their utmost to ensure it didn’t reach the partisans. They crept on upwards, pausing every hundred metres until they were close to the meeting point. He pulled the Signora to him once more and whispered in her ear.
‘You go on now. Go straight on up the hill. You see that big rock silhouetted against the sky?’
The Signora strained her eyes and could just make out the outline. ‘Yes, I see it.’
‘Head for that rock, Signora. That is what Cecilia does. Somewhere between here and that rock someone will find you. Let’s hope it is the person you want. Go now. I will wait for you here.’
The Signora looked up at the rock, wobbly on her feet now that she no longer had Piero to follow. She climbed a step at a time, unwilling to take her eyes off the rock up ahead in case she lost sight of it. She tripped, but caught herself as she hit the ground. She found herself among rocks and began to climb over and around them, desperately keeping an eye out for her marker. She climbed with as much urgency and strength as she could muster but the rock never seemed any closer. She nearly screamed out loud when hands grabbed her from behind.
‘Well … well … if it isn’t Guido’s brave little whore.’
She fainted.
When she came to, she could see the shape of a man kneeling over her, then felt his hand slapping her face.
‘Stop! Stop it!’ she cried hoarsely. ‘Who are you?’
‘Who am I? Who the hell are you?’
She remembered the passwords. ‘Margherita.’
‘Ah … Margherita. Bene! I am your Romeo. Guido couldn’t make it. It is too risky. There are too many patrols. Now is not a good time to lose our leader so he sent me instead. Tell me what you know—quickly before we both freeze to death!’
‘No! First, you tell me something. Why did you call me Guido’s whore?’ The Signora was confused and disappointed. She was looking forward to seeing her husband again, however briefly. Tiredness, fear and her fainting spell had taken its toll. How did he know that she was bringing the message this time, and why when she was his wife did he call her Guido’s whore? It didn’t make sense. ‘Tell me. Why do you insult me? Why do you call me Guido’s whore?’
‘What does it matter to you? I thought you were his darling Cecilia. Everybody knows that slut is fucking Guido.’ The partisan laughed. He waited for a response and became curious when he didn’t get one. He misunderstood her silence. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t tell me he’s fucking you as well?’
‘Yes, he is as a matter of fact.’ Her voice seemed to come from far away, not sad nor accusing but filled with pain. ‘I am Guido’s wife.’
Chapter Thirty-four
‘I thought you were dead.’ He sat propped up in his armchair, a tired old man supported by pillows and cushions. Colombina looked down at her hands, unable for a moment to meet his eyes which had become shiny with tears.
‘I thought you were dead,’ he said again, his tone still accusatory. ‘But then one day without warning you walked back into my life. It was pure chance, an act of God! A blessing! I didn’t recognise you immediately but I recognised something familiar about you. At first I was cautious, wondering who you could be. But then you appeared on my doorstep one Sunday with Rouladen and Blumenkohlsuppe. That was not the kindness of a stranger who had met me only once. No! You had gone to too much effort. That was the act of a friend or of someone who wanted to be my friend, someone who wanted to get close to me for whatever reason. Naturally I was suspicious, but it was easy to hide my suspicions behind my excitement at the prospect of real food. German food! It was only when you asked if I’d like a coffee that it began to dawn on me that it was you and that somehow, miraculously, you had come back to life and into mine. I said, “I drink tea” and you replied, “Of course”. Oh, you covered up well but it was the way you said it that triggered my memory. It reminded me of a beautiful girl in Menaggio who had been my lover and then my sole reason for living. But how could that be? You were dead. But deep inside me I knew it was you. A tiny spark of hope re-ignited the pilot light within me, and its heat began to course through my body. It was like coming alive again after a century of hibernation. It was like being reborn. As we talked I became more and more certain. You had the same mannerisms and the same confidence. I escorted you to the door so that I could look at you more closely in daylight. Dear God, you had changed Cecilia, we have all changed, but you were still beautiful and I recognised you. I wanted to shout “Cecilia! It’s me, Friedrich!” and grab you and hold you. But then I realised you already knew who I was but were pretending otherwise. So I covered up. I was stunned. I couldn’t understand why—why you would want to taunt me that way? And I still don’t.’ He paused to look at Colombina, his hurt still undiminished.
‘Each time you came back I expected you to admit to your true identity but you didn’t. As time went by I realised you had no intention of doing so. I was mystified. Obviously you were not going to report me to the authorities or you would have done it. So I decided to play your game and a game of my own, a game you should have been familiar with. I set out to seduce you again, to win you over as I had back in Menaggio. With patience, thoughtfulness and sincerity. In truth, that is all I have left. I could sense that I was succeeding. Then, when you came to visit me in hospital I was sure I had. Have I, Cecilia? Have I succeeded in making you love me agai
n?’
‘Don’t call me Cecilia. My name is Colombina now.’
He accepted the rebuff and its implications in silence. Once he never gave away a hint of what he was thinking, but now his hurt was plain to see. His eyes grew shiny once more. Finally he managed to put aside his disappointment and found the strength to face up to her.
‘But if you don’t love me, why have you come back to me? Why befriend me? Why care for me? Why have you done so much for me?’
‘To get my revenge, Friedrich.’
‘Revenge …!’ He stared at her open-mouthed, the fugitive cornered when he least expected it, gasping like a stranded goldfish.
‘Revenge Friedrich, for killing my mother!’
‘Your mother? I don’t understand.’ He looked up at her bewildered.
Colombina grabbed the locket around her neck and jerked it so that the clasp broke. She opened it and took out her late husband’s photo. Maddalena’s face stared up at them. Her hands shook as she held the faded image right up to Friedrich’s face. He fumbled for his reading glasses, put them on slowly and deliberately and studied the picture in front of him.
‘I swear, Cecilia, I have never seen her before in my life.’
‘Think again! Think back to the square in Ravello. Think back to those eight women you murdered.’
‘Nooo …!’ His cry of anguish was genuine and heartfelt. What had he done? His world crashed in on him, crushing his dreams, burying his hopes. The picture was small and old and faded brown. But, yes, she was the woman who had argued with him and cursed him before the firing squad had shot her. She was the brave one. Dear God! What had he done?
