Lunch with Mussolini

by Derek Hansen

  ‘When she was told I was dead she was torn apart by grief. She always maintained I was the only good thing in her life. She went to the church to try and find some reason behind it all. To try and find some comfort. Instead she found you and you killed her!’

  ‘Oh dear God! Oh Cecilia! Honestly I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know! How can you ever forgive me? How can I ever forgive myself? What have I done? Oh dear God, what have I done?’ He cupped his face in his hands and began to weep. His shoulders shook and Colombina could hear him struggle for breath as he sobbed.

  The anger had gone from Colombina as quickly as it had flared. The secret she’d carried gnawing away at her insides was now out in the open. She felt empty. She looked at her mother’s picture and at the distraught figure slumped over in the chair. She knew what she had to do. She closed her locket and put it in her pocket. She sat down on the arm of his chair and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Why, Friedrich? What made you do such a terrible thing?’

  He looked up and turned his tear-streaked face to her in astonishment. ‘How can you ask me that? I did it because of you! Because of you! Because of what they did to you.’ His voice shook and he looked beseechingly into her eyes. She turned away, forced at last to face a truth she’d always known—a truth too painful to admit, a pill too bitter to swallow. She lowered her head. It was her turn to weep. Yes, she had been instrumental in the death of her mother just as she had with her brother Alfredo.

  ‘My tea is cold,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll go put the kettle on again.’

  ‘That, I take it, is our cue for coffee, no?’

  Lucio nodded. He picked up his napkin and wiped his forehead.

  ‘Well done, Lucio, your story grows more complex and tantalising by the minute.’ Ramon reached over and patted his shoulder. ‘And thank you for telling us about Colombina so early in the piece. I thought you were going to keep us waiting until the end of the day like you usually do.’

  ‘There is more to come, Ramon.’

  ‘More?’ Ramon’s surprise was genuine. ‘A double ration?’

  ‘Yes. My story has begun to accelerate towards its climax. Soon it will be someone else’s turn to put up with your cross-examinations and insinuations.’

  ‘It all adds to my enjoyment of the story, Lucio. Isn’t that what we come here for?’

  Chapter Thirty-five

  ‘We were betrayed!’ Dietrich stood leaning over Friedrich’s table, his face flushed with rage. ‘They knew every detail of our plan. I want everyone who was at the briefing rounded up and questioned by the Gestapo. Now!’

  ‘No, Herr Sturmbannführer! You have had your chance. You wanted your way and you got it. You have given the partisans in this region their biggest victory so far. We will now be made to pay for your blunder all winter! If you want to know who to blame, look no further than yourself. You come up here and presume to tell us how to do our job. Now perhaps you have a better understanding of the problems we face. Of course there are informers and of course they will slip your net. This is their country, this is their home. They know every bush, tree and pathway. Your plan had a major weakness—it took too long to organise. When you are surrounded by a hostile population, time is not something you have. But you wouldn’t listen. Besides, your tactics were blatant. The SS does not advertise its movements but you did. Do you think for a second that anyone actually believed you were withdrawing? The whole affair has been a disaster and it is a disaster of your making. You can explain to High Command how you sacrificed twenty-seven of my men and a third of the Blackshirts, and lost every single one of our prisoners. Explain the genius of your plan to them. I assure you, it is all in my report, and I mean all!’

  ‘We were betrayed. How did they know to dynamite the bridge at San Pietro just as we approached it? How did they know to move down the mountain after the attack instead of up as they usually do? And tell me this, why are you still alive?’

  ‘No, you tell me, Herr Sturmbannführer. It was your plan. You tell me.’

  ‘One of those fascist bastards betrayed us!’

  ‘Unlikely. Their losses were the highest.’

  ‘Who else could know?’ His eyes narrowed as a thought occurred. ‘You discussed it didn’t you, over dinner, up at the Count’s Villa. Yes! I bet you did. You discussed my plan with no more thought for security than if you were discussing the weather. Admit it!’

  ‘I admit it. Do you think that raving fascist up there would betray us? He is a personal friend of Mussolini.’

  ‘What about the servants? What about the girl?’

  ‘The servants were not present. The doors were closed. The girl is as loyal to Mussolini as the Count. Do you think for a second she could have survived there if she wasn’t? The same is true of all his staff. Besides, the girl has been sick and confined to bed since the dinner took place.’

  ‘I want her interrogated. I will do it myself.’

  ‘For God’s sake you are clutching at straws. The girl’s father is the local fascist cadre. He is a slow-witted fool but a committed fascist. Everyone at the Villa Carosio is a committed fascist. The manservant and chauffeur took part in Mussolini’s march on Rome.’ Friedrich had listened enough. It was time he dismissed the Sturmbannführer and sent him back to the front with his tail between his legs.

  ‘What about the housekeeper, the partisan leader’s wife? I want her interrogated. I want them all interrogated by the Gestapo!’

  ‘No, Herr Sturmbannführer. What you want no longer matters. You are dismissed. As of this instant, you are ordered to rejoin your company as soon as possible. Here is confirmation from General Wolff. I have been in contact with him.’ He handed Dietrich a radio despatch. Dietrich read it and crumpled the message up in his fist.

  ‘You bastard! I will get even with you for this!’

  ‘Don’t let me delay you, Herr Sturmbannführer.’ Friedrich stood and glowered at the SS officer. For the second time in his life he thought Dietrich was going to strike him. Instead, he whirled on his feet and stomped out of the room.

  Friedrich watched him go then sank back into his chair. He ran his hands through his hair. He had a lot of thinking to do. Dietrich was right on a number of issues and there were many questions that begged an answer. Of course, they’d been betrayed. The partisans not only knew every detail of the plan but had even had time to devise a brilliant counter. But that didn’t explain why he was still alive. Did they simply prefer the devil they knew to the devil they didn’t? Why not? The ambush certainly called for reprisals which the partisans could reasonably assume he wouldn’t take. But could they be as confident with his replacement? And what if Dietrich had been left in charge? Friedrich shuddered. Dietrich would have ordered reprisals and they would not have been token. Did that explain his reprieve or was somebody protecting him? If so, who? And why? He went over the failed trap in his mind, seeking inspiration.

  The whole thing had been a disaster. The first two convoys had left right on schedule without incident. But the SS had barely travelled a few kilometres before the San Pietro bridge was blown up, effectively isolating the SS on the wrong side of the river and the mountains. When they’d gone to inspect the damage, they’d come under mortar fire. Three men had been killed before they’d managed to withdraw. Friedrich’s convoy had continued unawares until the partisans opened fire on them with captured Panzerfausts. The shells had ripped through the two trucks carrying troops, completely disabling them. They’d known exactly which trucks to hit. Then his men had come under a hail of grenades taped to petrol bombs. His driver had had no choice but to accelerate away, expecting a Panzerfaust to line up on them at any moment. But it hadn’t, and Friedrich was at a loss to know why. They could have blocked the road and petrol bombed him or fired on the Lancia with their light automatics. One short burst would have been enough to do the job. It was almost as if the partisans wanted to separate him from the battle.

  He’d ordered his driver to stop once they’d rounded a corner
and could take to the covering trees. While he’d tried to double back, his men had taken a merciless beating. They’d had no chance to use their mortars or unload their machine-guns. All but a few of the soldiers in the first truck were wiped out and those in the second were forced down into the trees by mortar fire. Those guarding the prisoners had jumped for cover the moment the partisans had struck, only to surrender immediately to the desperate men pointing their short-barrelled parabellos at their hearts. Then, as quickly as they’d struck, the partisans melted away back up the hill with their prisoners.

  But they didn’t continue on up the hill. If he’d needed more evidence of betrayal he needed to look no further. The partisans had doubled back and withdrawn down the hill. It was a tactic they’d never employed before. Meanwhile, the troops from the lead convoy raced uphill in precisely the opposite direction in a bid to intercept them. Whoever had briefed the spotter plane had also failed to consider this possibility, and it had circled in futile loops over the heights.

  Worse was to follow. As the Blackshirts raced up the mountain to his rescue, one of the units ran straight into an ambush. The partisans had been absolutely ruthless on their countrymen whom they considered traitors. They’d slaughtered them, and in the process ignored all attempts by the soldiers to surrender. Friedrich found this hard to reconcile with the treatment his own men had received. Those who had surrendered had been tied up but unharmed less than a hundred metres away. The partisans had eventually escaped up the Sanagra Valley unopposed.

  Who had betrayed them? Who could he trust in future? Perhaps one of the Blackshirt brigades had been infiltrated. Perhaps one of the Blackshirt officers was too trusting. The more he thought about that the more it seemed the most likely scenario. After all, only one of the fascist units had been hit. The informant would have made sure his unit was spared. What could he do but caution his Blackshirt leaders to secrecy once more, and make sure he told them no more than was absolutely necessary for them to do their part in any future action. He did not even momentarily consider the leak came from the Villa Carosio. Who in their right mind would?

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Cecilia looked up as Antonella opened her door and came in with a box of Swiss chocolates, gift-wrapped with a note from Friedrich. But not even this could cheer her up. It was not just the cold that kept her in her bed but the heaviness in her heart. Once again she’d failed to foresee the natural consequences of her actions. In her mind, her motives were always pure and she was always surprised when others interpreted them differently. The Signora had been unforgiving and flatly refused to hear any explanation or even discuss the subject. Surely the Signora could see that what went on up in the mountains had nothing whatsoever to do with her own relationship with Guido, that she’d had no intention of ever coming between them. In Cecilia’s mind they were separate worlds. What she’d done up there she’d done for Guido, in response to his needs and deprivation. That was how she justified in her mind what had taken place. She ignored the fact that she’d loved him and had entertained the belief that he’d loved her equally in return. To her, the affair was nothing more than an act of kindness. Why couldn’t the Signora see it? Besides, she’d already decided to terminate it.

  She’d tried to explain to Carmela in the hope that she would intercede on her behalf with her mother. The two had grown very close. But Carmela had just slapped her face and contributed another stream of invective over her betrayal of their trust. After that, she deliberately and pointedly ignored her, at times refusing even to face in her direction.

  Cecilia felt sorry for herself, wondering why it was that once again she had to bear the blame alone. Perhaps she could get Guido to explain what had happened. She clung to the hope briefly then dismissed it. She’d done so much and risked so much to help others and now once more she was an outcast. It wasn’t fair. She wondered how she’d ever manage when she was back on her feet, and obliged to face the Signora and Carmela every day. Dear God! And she’d suffered more than either of them.

  Her mother Maddalena had been allowed up to her room to bring her the bad news. Her eldest brother, Alfredo, had been killed in the partisan ambush. She’d had to comfort her mother and at the same time face up to the fact that she’d contributed to his death. It didn’t matter that he was a Blackshirt and her enemy, or that he’d treated her so cruelly after she’d been thrown out of her home. He was still the brother she’d grown up with and loved. She now had to live with the fact that she’d also betrayed him.

  Maddalena had been surprised at the depth of her daughter’s grief and put it down to the sibling affection which runs so deep in Italian families. It gave her comfort and made her feel proud of her daughter.

  ‘You’re a good girl, Cecilia,’ she’d said over and over. ‘You’re a good girl.’ Her daughter had just clung to her in silent grief as she’d stroked her hair.

  Cecilia now had no one she could turn to and call her friend. Except one. She looked at the box of chocolates and wondered when they’d meet again.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Christmas approached cheerlessly in uneasy truce, while the Germans licked their wounds and the partisans occupied the lower slopes, taking what respite they could from the cold, the snow and incessant fogs. Convoys passed through infrequently, depending on the state of the main supply route through Como. At the Villa Carosio, there was no truce. Time did nothing to soften the edges of the Signora’s anger nor take the sting from her bitterness. She only spoke to Cecilia to convey instructions and her coolness couldn’t help but infect the staff. They squabbled and niggled at each other, not sure why things had changed, only that they had, and that Cecilia was somehow to blame. They resented her for that and Cecilia found herself more and more isolated.

  Her mother was her only comfort but even in her company Cecilia sensed her silent reproach. She yearned to talk to her and tell her what had really happened, but how could she? She had no one to talk to so she convinced herself of her innocence and absolved herself of any wrongdoing. She was, after all, a heroine. She risked her life for Guido, the partisans and for Italy. One day her story would be told and everyone would see how wrong they’d been. In the meantime she resolved to hold her head high and be stoic in the face of the silent accusations and resentment. If people wouldn’t speak to her, she’d speak to them. And if they didn’t answer, she’d carry on as if they did. She would rise above it all. The staff interpreted her conduct as pride and arrogance when perhaps a little humility was more appropriate, and their resentment hardened. In truth it was little more than childish petulance.

  The Count could offer no comfort. The cold weather had found the weakness in his chest and he rarely left his bedroom. When Cecilia kept him company, all he did was complain. He no longer found distraction in his books and the newspapers only depressed him. He dictated long, rambling, disjointed messages to Mussolini which Cecilia never bothered to send, converting them instead to Christmas greetings or similar messages of cheer. But mostly the old man slept or sat huddled up in front of the fire, staring at the flames as if imagining what might have been. Perhaps he saw again Mussolini’s triumphant torchlight procession with Hitler past the burning Colosseum, or the hopes of his youth. Whatever he found in the flames brought him solace and released Cecilia from his presence, giving her the opportunity to see the Oberstleutnant.

  He often sent the Lancia to collect her and bring her back to the barracks, where he taught her to cook the solid, warming Saxon and east German food. The day before Christmas he sent the car for her and they made Dresdner Stollen, Saxon Christmas fruit bread, without which Friedrich insisted it was impossible to celebrate Christmas. He had the glacé cherries, raisins, currants and almonds brought in from Switzerland on one of the convoys, and scoured Como for the remaining ingredients. They made it together in the little kitchen attached to his quarters, taking turns to knead the dough until it was smooth and elastic and all the flour incorporated. They opened a bottle of wine and turned the
occasion into an event.

  For Cecilia, the time she spent with Friedrich was like a tonic, relief from the siege. She could relax and laugh and chat, knowing that her goodwill would be welcomed and repaid many times over. There were no recriminations here with her enemy as there were with her friends, just genuine warmth and affection. They teased each other, laughed at their mistakes and shared their triumphs as their culinary endeavours turned out exactly as they should. But they weren’t siblings, nor cousins, but two healthy young people with normal desires and weaknesses. Their time together was an anomaly, an oasis of calm in the eye of the storm that raged around them. It was time out from the fears and concerns and the reality of their lives. Who could blame them for seizing it with both hands?

  They became lovers as the Dresdner Stollen cooled on the wire rack above the stove, flushed with success, wine and the rum left over from cooking. It began with a kiss and a joyful embrace which lingered a little longer than expected. Friedrich gave her the chance to withdraw, but instead she put her mouth over his and traced his lips with her tongue. He pulled her gently to him so he could feel her breasts pressing against his chest and returned her kisses. They stood there together in the kitchen, locked in their embrace, oblivious of their surrounds, rocking gently, lost in each other.

  He bent over, slipped his arm behind her legs and picked her up. She held on, her arms locked around his neck and buried her head on his chest. He didn’t carry her to his bedroom but lay her down instead in front of the fire in the room that served as both dining room and lounge. It was spartan but at least it was carpeted. By the flickering light of the fire he removed her clothing, not in haste but slowly as if savouring every moment. Cecilia could feel her breasts swell and her nipples harden. Then he undressed and lay beside her.