Lunch with Mussolini

by Derek Hansen

  Cecilia wanted him inside her then, to pick her up and sweep her away in a frenzy of passion. She was ready and told him so. But he ignored her and silenced her by putting his lips over hers so lightly that they barely touched. He ran his hands over her body, cupping her breasts, tracing her navel, caressing the swirl of her hips, so gently she was never entirely certain where they were. She wanted him but still he played with her. She reached down and found his penis, alert and ready. What was he waiting for? But still he just stroked her and kissed her and her body flooded with the most delicious sensations. But it wasn’t enough! It wasn’t enough. He moved on top of her and slid his body lightly along hers. She could feel her wetness and her tension grew. Then he entered her and her back arched in welcome. But there was no frenzied rush to fulfilment as there had been with Guido. Instead a slow, slow, ever so slow quickening then easing of intensity. He brought her on and on teasingly, skilfully, crescendo to decrescendo, until she could stand no more. She cried out. Her orgasm racked her body in endless waves from her head to her toes. But, dear God, he wasn’t finished and not yet finished with her. He took her with him until he could hold back no longer and released the flood gates.

  They lay together not moving while the after-shocks subsided, holding onto each other and the moment. Cecilia was in love. She realised she had been in love with Friedrich for some time and it was only her duty to Guido that had prevented her from showing it. But now there were no such restraints. Typically she didn’t consider the fact that he was married. There was plenty of time for that later. All she knew was that she loved him and he loved her. Yes! He loved her! It occurred to her that their time together had been a long, elaborate courtship and that he’d been in love with her all along. The way he’d made love to her was ample evidence. Yes, he loved her. They were lovers and in love, and would remain lovers forever. Forever. Cecilia accepted the lie because it was what she wanted to believe with all her heart. There’d be time to come to terms with that later. But not now. She rolled over on top of him and slid her legs on either side of his. She propped herself on her arms and knees and slowly revolved her lower body over his. She felt wanton and shameless and sinful and more confident than she’d ever felt in her life. She arched her back and closed her eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  For Friedrich, the Dresdner Stollen had a bitter taste. Instead of elation he felt guilt and remorse. He thought of all the women he’d lain with over the course of the war, and knew Cecilia could not be dismissed as lightly. He also knew where the blame lay. He set out to court her and seduce her for his own amusement, but in doing so he had grown extraordinarily close to her. He couldn’t accept that what he felt for Cecilia was love because he loved Christiane, but anyone witness to their affair would have found it hard to draw that distinction. He knew he should sever contact with Cecilia. He knew in his heart that that was what he should do before either of them got in any deeper, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Besides, he rationalised, it would be too cruel to Cecilia, to lead her on for almost a year and then drop her the instant they made love. It was not as if she was a girl who gave herself readily. Their courtship was testimony to that. No, he’d set out to make her love him and want him, and he’d succeeded. Now he must manage the consequences until the war moved on and took him with it.

  He’d left his quarters to join his men once Cecilia was on her way back to the Villa Carosio for dinner and the giving of gifts. He’d saved a little of the Dresdner Stollen for Cecilia and given the rest to his men. Even so it was a subdued Christmas, as his men contemplated their prospects and the plight of their families in the face of the inevitable defeat. Not the wine Friedrich allowed them nor the Christmas bread could cheer them up. That required nothing short of surrender and there was precious little hope of that.

  In his guilt, Friedrich’s thoughts turned to Christiane and her refusal to move west. Nothing, it seemed, could make her change her mind. She spoke of Dresden as being a free city, a refugee city, a fact that was respected by the Allies and pointed to the fact that Dresden hadn’t been bombed to validate the belief. He couldn’t convince her that bombing wasn’t as much of a threat as the Russians, who were massing on the Vistula in preparation for a spring offensive. When they came they would show no mercy. Rumours of Russian tanks driving straight over refugee columns in the East Prussian district of Gumbinnen had even reached him in Italy. Surely working with the Frauenschaften she must have come in contact with refugees and heard the stories. Why didn’t she heed them? He could see the hand of Carl Schiller in her intransigence.

  The writing had been on the wall for more than two years but Carl still steadfastly refused to read it. He refused to believe that Hitler would allow Germany to be overrun and clung to the fond hope that somehow a solution would be worked out. But any hope of surrender had died when the bomb plot to kill Hitler had failed. Friedrich could imagine Carl, having filled her head with nonsense about the invulnerability of Germany and the infallibility of Hitler, now trying to convince Christiane and himself that, even if the unthinkable happened, Dresden would somehow still be spared. Friedrich wanted to fly home and shake some sense into him. But years of Goebbels’ propaganda and news deprivation had denied the citizenry any basis upon which to make a judgement. They believed what they wanted to believe, and those with doubts wisely kept them to themselves.

  Understanding the problem, however, didn’t automatically produce a solution and Friedrich fired off yet another letter, carefully worded to hide its intent from the censors. He talked about having a second child named after a non-existent uncle who lived in the Black Forest, and even expressed the hope that the child be born there. He could hardly have been more blatant, but had no reason to hope that this plea would be any more successful than those that had preceded it. Damn Carl! Why didn’t he let Christiane move out from under his wing while she had the chance?

  As winter tightened its grip, Kesselring held firmly to his defensive positions along the Po Valley and the Allies closed down their offensive to wait for spring. The partisans in the hills above Menaggio gave up all thoughts of harassment as they concentrated on the more urgent problem of finding food and safe shelter.

  Friedrich and Cecilia took full advantage of the lull and were never far from each other’s company. Cecilia was young and in love and didn’t care if the whole world knew. The old men muttered obscenities behind her back and the women snubbed her. Even the Signora and Carmela were openly contemptuous of her, though they knew of her secret agenda. But Cecilia didn’t care. She learned about German food and German composers and how to make tea the way he liked it. Friedrich would have had to go a long way to find a more attentive student. She adored him and everything about him. She didn’t care that he was the enemy or what people might think. When the war ended, they’d discover the truth. Guido would make sure of that.

  But the war hadn’t ended for them, it had just gone into hibernation. When the awakening came there was no gradual quickening of activity, but a sudden thunderclap both unexpected and devastating. Cecilia was with Friedrich on the morning of February 14 when the news came through. She’d spent the whole night with him swaddled in blankets in front of the fire, and was preparing his breakfast when she heard the discreet knock on the door. She took little notice of it. She heard Friedrich turn the handle and open the door as she poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot. She heard him say good morning to the communications clerk as she stirred the brew the mandatory three times. She put two cups and saucers on the tray, a little jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. She picked up the tray, carried it into the main room and placed it on the table. She’d expected Friedrich to already be seated at the table. She looked up, curious to see where he was. She was surprised to find he was still standing by the door.

  ‘Friedrich?’ she said tentatively.

  He didn’t move or even seem to hear her. He just stared at the message in his hands.

  ‘Friedrich, what is it?’
She sensed something was terribly wrong. ‘Friedrich!’ She ran over to him. Bumped him as she reached him. But he didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t seem to hear her or see her. He seemed oblivious of everything. He just stared at the message, the message that changed both their lives forever.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Adversity brought out the best in Christiane. The combination of years of near starvation rations and the day and night bombardment by the RAF and the USAF had left the German population weak and demoralised. They longed for peace and the return to some kind of normal life. It was increasingly apparent that the war was lost, yet most people didn’t expect Germany to be overrun. The army would defend their borders and, if the situation became utterly hopeless, negotiate a peace as they had at the conclusion of the First World War. East Prussia aside, it was inconceivable that a single enemy soldier would set foot inside German territory. So they clung on, freezing inside clothing made from wood pulp which retained little warmth, and subsisting on what little food was available.

  In Dresden, food, fuel for fires and electricity were in critically short supply. The flood of refugees had swollen its peacetime population of just over six hundred thousand to around one and a quarter million. Horses and dairy cattle were killed for their meat and black marketeers were executed on the spot. Relief supplies were shipped in from all over Saxony, but even so people barely survived.

  The Schillers got by on their diminishing store of preserves which they used to supplement their rations. Where once they’d laughed at Christiane’s zeal for bottling everything she could get her hands on, they now had reason to be grateful. Their illicit supply of dairy food and eggs dried up once they’d surrendered Little Pillnitz to the Housing Department to provide temporary shelter for refugees. Christiane willingly gave up those precious little extras along with their country home. The Fatherland was in trouble and it needed her help. What’s more she needed to help, to be useful, in the belief that firm resolve and self-sacrifice on her part would somehow help save Germany. She was by no means alone in her belief. It was a national characteristic to ignore the larger issue in the conviction that if everybody obeyed their orders and did their duty to the fullest, somehow everything would resolve itself for the good. That was the light they searched for at the end of a long, bleak tunnel.

  Christiane believed she was safe in her free City of Dresden, and that it was her duty to help others less privileged. Helmuth was four and a half years old, not yet of an age for school, but able to be left in the care of her father and her sister Lisl, who was still exempted from work to care for her daughter. So Christiane threw herself into her work with the Frauenschaften. Her experience at the Semper Picture Gallery had made her a good administrator so she was assigned to help organise and process refugees from Silesia as they passed through Dresden on their way west. Her enthusiasm and energy was an example to others and gave heart to the weary, desperate refugees. Just as she drew strength from Carl’s confidence and conviction, the refugees drew strength from her. She told them where to go and what to do and relieved them of the necessity of making decisions for themselves. They followed her instructions blindly, willingly and to the letter, and the processing of refugees under her control ran more smoothly and efficiently than anywhere else.

  Christiane knew she was doing a good job and put in longer and longer hours. She worked by night when the trains ran to avoid being strafed by American fighter planes and light bombers. Sometimes she stayed on to help feed the hungry, exhausted women and children held over on the station platforms. Inevitably, those who excel in providing such much needed service sooner or later come to regard their contribution—and themselves—as indispensable. Friedrich’s urgings for her to move to the west with Helmuth hadn’t fallen on barren ground, at least not entirely. It wasn’t just his letters that caused the change of heart but the stories of Russian atrocities the fleeing Silesians, East Prussians and Pomeranians brought with them. But just as she’d resolved to join them in their flight, the number of refugee trains had doubled. She saw the potential for chaos and unselfishly threw herself into the fray, telling herself she was only deferring the move. She thought the upsurge in traffic was only temporary and that it would soon ease. Then she’d comply with Friedrich’s requests. In the meantime she couldn’t leave, not while she was so desperately needed. Anyway, she’d have to wait until things eased before she could hope to get permission to travel.

  On the night of February 13 she was called in on duty. Among the refugees she had to organise and despatch were two trains from Königsbruck filled with children—Deutsches Jungvolk. She left Helmuth playing with his grandfather. She walked carefully through the black-out to Central Station counting the steps between each intersection, never more than an arm’s length from the old stone and timber houses which were her only guide. They were good old houses, butted tightly together as if to share their warmth, even though some now leaned away from the original angle of their construction. They’d housed and sheltered Dresdeners for centuries. That night, there was hardly a home that didn’t also shelter its quota of refugees. Occasionally a vehicle passed cautiously by with hooded lights.

  As she walked through the Altmarkt, Christiane snuggled deeper into her coat to escape the icy wind, wishing she’d been sent to Dresden Main Station instead which was less than a kilometre from her home. But Central Station had become the centre for refugees and she had no choice but to grope her way across street and square for three painstaking kilometres. Every Dresdener believed the winters were getting progressively colder but in fact the only thing that had changed was their sensitivity to it. It wasn’t just the lack of fuel which caused this but the changes in their diet. They were a people accustomed to eating lots of fat and would relish a pork dish served with pure pork fat instead of gravy. Traditionally this is what had insulated them from the cold. Now, with no fats to be had, the cold cut through to their bones.

  It was little warmer inside the station. Not even the mass of humanity crowded there could heat it. The ceiling was too high, the walls too wide and the main hall too cavernous. There was little chance of the glass ceilings retaining heat anyway. She went straight down to the vaulted basements which were the refugees’ temporary homes and reported for duty. In the weak, flickering light around her, exhausted Red Cross workers and labour force girls battled to feed the starving and tend to the aged and sick. Yet few complained. They’d been driven from their homes and lost everything except the clothes they wore. Some had lost children or partners, parents or friends. Yet they waited patiently and stoically, unshakable in their conviction that somehow the Reich would provide for them.

  The two trains filled with the Deutsches Jungvolk had been sent out onto a siding while space was cleared for them inside. Christiane was sent to join them. As she passed through the crowded throng, she spoke to everyone who caught her eye.

  ‘Grüss Gott!’ she’d say optimistically. ‘Soon you will be on your way west. There are nice homes and places for you to stay where the terror fliers never go. You are the lucky ones.’ Some of the refugees reached out to touch her as she passed and thanked her. Christiane had never felt so proud in her life. She loved being so useful and helpful and wanted. It was like a drug to her. Every reaching hand and uttered thanks inspired her to greater effort.

  She could hear the children before the trains loomed out of the darkness ahead of her. They were singing. She could hear the strident voice of her Frauenschaften colleague leading them. It was a silly childish song but it brought a smile to her face. She tried to imagine how Helmuth would cope with the boredom and inactivity of being cooped up in a railway carriage for days on end. She opened the door of the first carriage and climbed aboard. She pulled aside the black-out curtains and slipped into the compartment. One solitary lantern provided the only light, illuminating a sea of young, upturned faces. The children noted her arrival with their eyes and instantly decided she didn’t warrant an interruption to their song. Christiane sm
iled. It was a tonic to see these ten year olds and enjoy their good spirits. There was nothing passive about them. The war, hunger and their nightmarish trip had failed utterly to strip them of their right to behave like children and enjoy themselves. What was the flight west except an adventure?

  She glanced over to the woman she was about to relieve, who sang heartily but with tiredness etched into her face. She rolled her eyes at Christiane, finished the song and handed over. She waved to the children as she left but they’d already forgotten her. She was just another face in a sequence that had begun hundreds of miles away to the east. Christiane judged that her charges had had enough of singing for a while and wanted to sleep or amuse themselves. She let them. There was little for her to do. Their names had all been checked and numbers counted to make sure nobody was missing. They’d all been given a bowl of soup and a piece of coarse bread. She noticed that they’d all kept half of the bread they’d been given in case of emergency. Obviously they’d been caught out before and learned the hard way. She wandered from carriage to carriage then crossed over to the second train, but it was clear everything was under control.

  As she was crossing back she heard the sound of an aircraft high overhead. She felt no sense of alarm but looked up anyway. As she watched, the clouds above her began to glow red, faintly at first and then progressively brighter. She was mystified. Suddenly she realised she could pick out things around her, the station building, the railway lines and the houses backing onto the track. She could see each of the carriages clearly. An aircraft roared low overhead without lights and she ducked instinctively. The awful truth began to dawn on her. But why were there no searchlights? Why no air raid alarm? Why no anti-aircraft fire?

  Unfortunately for Dresden, the myth of its status as a free city had even penetrated High Command. They’d taken away the batteries of searchlights and sent them to cities more in need. They’d taken away the 88-millimetre anti-aircraft guns and sent them to the Russian front to combat tanks. To soothe the nervous citizens, they’d replaced them with wooden and papier-mâché replicas. That night, as one of the deadliest bomber formations of the war closed in, Dresden was undefended.