‘Frühstück?’ I try some newly acquired German. ‘Breakfast?’
‘Ja ja, Frühstück,’ and to my surprise he leads me to the station cafeteria where upon production of a chit we’re served with rather better ersatz coffee and bread than at camp. The girl behind the counter even produces a pot of jam, passing it over with a shy smile. Outside the concourse is growing busy with morning commuters, mainly women, although also some men in uniform. Army, I note, with only a smattering of Luftwaffe and Kriegsmarine. Some glance my way but most do not, which is odd, for a British Tommy having coffee with a German officer at St Pancras would certainly raise eyebrows. Perhaps after five years they don’t care any more. Or they’ve learned to look the other way, as Inge Brandt implied. For safety.
Sure enough, a little later, just as we’re preparing to leave, the cafeteria doors swing open and two men in civilian suits and overcoats enter. Nothing about their dress or demeanour betrays their purpose or occupation – they could be bank managers or civil servants or even doctors for all I know – but an immediate frisson of tension passes through the room like a chill, and my young escort practically jumps from his skin. Especially when he sees them heading for us.
‘Papiere,’ barks one, snapping his fingers, and the youth nervously produces a bundle. Meanwhile the second man orders coffee from the terrified waitress by simply lifting his chin. I now sense exactly what these two are about and deliberately turn my back. A full five minutes then elapses, the cafeteria almost silent, while they drink coffee and pore over our papers. Meanwhile my escort is growing increasingly anxious.
‘Unser zug…’ he pleads. Our train.
‘Warten Sie!’
We wait as ordered until, apparently satisfied that all is in order, the documents are at last returned to him. Then the first man turns to me, scrutinizing my beret and wings with undisguised contempt.
‘Terrorist,’ he says in English.
‘Doctor,’ I reply. ‘And you?’
‘Heil Hitler.’ He flings out a Nazi salute, and the pair walk out.
A collective exhalation circles the cafeteria. Then conversation resumes as if nothing happened.
‘Gestapo?’ I say to my guard.
He mops his brow. ‘Gestapo.’
CHAPTER 14
With the winter sun rising over the coastal plain to his right, Theo set out along the shoreline, speed-marching three miles north to the seaside village of Caselle. Time was now of the essence, time and distance, for his prison escape was more than twenty-four hours old, and though his pursuers couldn’t know his exact location or intentions, X Troop had been caught making for the coast, so they’d assume the same and search accordingly. In his favour, they were chasing a desperate British Tommy, not a scruffy Italian labourer, so he entered Caselle unnoticed, mingling with workers waiting for a bus to the city. Squeezing aboard, nobody paid him heed and he was soon jolting north towards the factories and mills of Salerno sixteen miles up the coast. There he headed for the station, stopping at shops en route to buy clothes suitable for a medical student, including sports jacket, shirts, tie, cap and toiletries, and a small suitcase to carry them in. Finally buying new shoes, he buried his old clothes and army boots in rough ground behind the stadium, and under his new guise of Andreas Ladurner continued to the station, where he bought a ticket for Rome. With the cash Smith had given him plus the fifty thousand lire from his battledress lining, he was more than adequately financed, so as he waited he bought a shave and haircut, and breakfasted on coffee and biscotti at the station buffet. There, surrounded by the alien yet familiar chatter of Italian accents, and watchful for cruising carabinieri, he picked up a newspaper, scouring its pages for mention of the aqueduct raid. He found none, but to his shock did see photos of Erwin Rommel, in Rome apparently meeting military chiefs. By late morning he was aboard his train, rocking gently north out of Salerno, skirting the cone of Vesuvius and sprawling suburbs of Naples, and heading into the softer hills and plains of Lazio. The view was restful, the carriage quiet, the motion soporific, but he was too keyed up to relax, and passed the hours scrutinizing his fellow passengers and staring at his own hunted reflection in the window. At Cassini he was jolted from his reverie when the train suddenly stopped and armed carabinieri boarded, passing through the carriages checking everyone’s papers. He waited, heart pounding, trying to appear calm and praying the check was routine; when his turn came the policeman flicked through his papers, holding up his carta d’identità and glancing between his face and his Kingston school photo before handing it back without comment. Twenty minutes later the train was on its way again, arriving at Rome’s Termini Station early in the evening. He found a pensione nearby, checked in under the Ladurner name, clumped wearily up to his room and collapsed on the bed.
When he woke later, darkness had fallen and his room was shrouded in shadows. He blinked blearily at the ceiling, trying to marshal his thoughts. The flight from Malta, blowing the aqueduct, crossing the mountains, capture, interrogation, Picchi’s execution, escape, fleeing to the sea and the final fruitless wait for rescue. All in just four days: could it be possible? And now this. An insane mission to contact revolutionaries – and the chance to see his grandparents again – all just a few miles from where he now lay. With the sheet round his shoulders, he padded barefoot to the window and threw open the shutters. Raucous noise and cold night air greeted him, while below the city spread out like a twinkling blanket. Theoretically blacked out against air raids, lights still showed everywhere, the whole city refusing to be subdued, heaving and buzzing with irrepressible life. Car horns blared, horses clopped, street-sellers shouted, cooking and wood-smoke smells rose, mingling with the musical murmur of Romans on the streets. This was not his home, this Italy of the metropolitan south, and never had been, but as he watched and listened he sensed something elemental stirring within him, calling to him like siren song. Unable to resist, he donned his new clothes, descended the stairs and stepped into the night.
The next day he paid his first visit to the infamous Regina Coeli prison, located across the muddy waters of the Tiber beside the Mazzini Bridge. Unfamiliar with the old city’s bewildering layout, finding his way took longer than anticipated and he arrived later than Smith’s suggested time of noon. Then he expended precious minutes pacing the street outside, eyeing the prison’s daunting façade and knowing his fate, indeed probably his life, hung on two slender threads: the papers in his pocket and the strength of his nerve.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ demanded the guard at the gatehouse.
‘My name is Ladurner. I, um, I have travelled from South Tyrol to visit an inmate here, my grandfather, Josef Ladurner.’
‘Then you’ve wasted your time, mountain boy. Visiting’s over, and anyway all visits are by strict pre-arrangement only.’
‘I understand this but have travelled a long way. The trains, you know.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘And I do have the necessary permits. See here.’
Heated negotiation followed, plus a long and detailed scrutiny of his papers, which included permissions from the Ministries of Justice and Interior, and a letter of reference from a Fascist Party functionary, all forged, Theo presumed, like his identity card, by Smith and his team. Evidently, however, they passed muster and after a body search for contraband he was admitted through a series of heavy steel doors and corridors to a bare room furnished with metal tables and chairs. Then Josef appeared.
‘Grandfather.’
‘By all the heavens, Andreas, is it really you?’
‘Yes, Grandfather, it is me.’
He was older, slighter, greyer and more stooped of posture, but the gleam in his eye was still piercing, his smile broad and his hair stiff and straight like a brush. ‘My God, Andreas, look at you! I was told you might visit one day but, I mean, all the way from Bolzano, I never thought…’
They drew up chairs. In doing so Josef caught Theo’s eye and nodded at the ceiling, indicating th
eir conversation was monitored. And throughout it he switched constantly between Italian, German and Ladin languages and never once mentioned England, nor referred to Theo as anything but Andreas.
‘How are your medical studies, my boy?’
‘They are progressing, Grandfather. More importantly, how are you?’
He looked well, Theo had to concede, despite his incarceration, now entering its fifth year. Older, perhaps slower, and with, he noticed, a slight tremor to his right hand, but as Josef spoke of life as a political prisoner, a mischievous glint soon entered his eye, and he became earnest and animated.
‘This place is stuffed full of great brains!’ he murmured in Ladin. ‘Academics and intellectuals, political thinkers, theologians and writers: it is a repository of wisdom and conscience. Oh, the discussions we have! And the arguments, of course, everyone has their own opinions!’ He lowered his voice further. ‘There is dissent too, and much mistrust, even among our own, but collectively we are a great thorn in Il Duce’s side – you know, one he will not silence and cannot ignore.’
‘Yes, Grandfather, but I trust you are being prudent?’
‘Pah!’ Josef’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘His time is limited. He knows it and so do we. Then we shall see!’ He glanced at the ceiling again. ‘You have something for me, I believe…’
‘What? Oh, um, yes.’ He fumbled at his pockets.
‘Not now! When we leave, embrace me.’
‘Right. Sorry.’
‘And now…’ He sat back. ‘Andreas, dear boy, tell me what you can of your family, back in our beloved South Tyrol. Your mother, for instance, how is the dear lady?’
Interned like you, Grandfather, he wanted to say, imprisoned because of her birthright. But he thought better of it. ‘She has been through a difficult period recently.’
‘So I understand from your Uncle Rodolfo, whom you must also visit…’
‘Yes I will—’
‘… with great caution.’
‘Ah, right, well—’
‘… and also your grandmother whose condition worries me.’
‘I will be sure to see her. In the meantime I am hopeful that Mother’s situation will, um, improve soon.’
‘I too. Let us thank heaven for that. Please pass her my very best wishes when next you see her. In Bolzano.’
They spoke further in generalities, of news from home, the continuing struggle for South Tyrolean autonomy, the progress of the war and Italy’s expansionist aims, daily life in the prison, the food and exercise arrangements, then a guard entered and the visit drew to a close. They rose from the table, hugged briefly, Theo passed the crucial letter for Gino Lucetti, and the task was completed.
As he was led from the room Josef turned and spoke once more.
‘One piece of rather sad news, Andreas.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Your teacher, at school back in Bolzano, what was the name?’
‘Do you mean Herr Adler?’
‘No, the other teacher. At the other school.’
‘You mean Miss Angeletti. Nikola Angeletti at the, um, catacomb school.’
‘That’s her. Got arrested and thrown in jail. Up in Trento, when I was there. She died of maltreatment and starvation. Murdered by the oppressor. So young, so courageous, simply for teaching and trying to do right for her pupils. Come and see me again soon, won’t you?’
*
His great-uncle Rodolfo lived in a tall house in the exclusive Rione XVI quarter, to the south of Villa Borghese. Upon ringing the bell he was admitted by a maid who showed no surprise at his arrival, but led him to an airy fourth-floor bedroom with ornate ceilings and an iron balcony overlooking the Borghese gardens. Signor Zambon was at the Ministry, she explained, his wife and daughter were out shopping, but he was to make himself at home. He dozed for an hour, to be awakened by the creak of footsteps in the corridor outside. These moved back and forth for a while; then his door squeaked open and an old woman appeared.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘Grandmother?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Grandmother Ellie, it is me Andreas – um, Theodor.’
‘You must go!’ she replied fearfully. ‘You must go, there is danger and betrayal!’
‘Where, Grandmother?’
‘Everywhere!’ Her once lustrous hair was wispy and white, her face pinched, and her eyes hunted anxiously about the room. She showed no sign of recognizing him.
‘Grandmother?’
‘Go! Before they come!’
Eleanora’s mind was going, Rodolfo explained later over dinner. It was the strain of years of conflict in Bolzano, he said, which was Josef’s fault, and Carla’s. Eleanora had repeatedly begged them to moderate their fanaticism, but they never did, and it had destroyed her nerves.
‘What about doctors?’
‘Doctors have tried. They do nothing but issue pills which do no good. We take care of her as best we can, but often she doesn’t recognize us. She refuses medication and wanders the streets, sometimes all night. If matters continue she will end up at the sanatorium.’
They were sitting in an elegant dining room drinking wine from crystal glasses and eating off flatware from Puglia. Rodolfo looked the same, perhaps more corpulent, but still urbane and stylish with expensive suits and smoothed-back hair. His wife Francesca too was the same as in Theo’s memory: coiffed, haughty, suspicious. Only his cousin Renata was transformed, from the gap-toothed tomboy of their youth to a dark and Rubenesque beauty. Although Rodolfo had hinted as such in his letter to Kingston, actually seeing her was a revelation, and he had trouble not staring. The atmosphere at table was of polite curiosity and caution. Francesca spoke little and appeared hostile; Rodolfo was expansive and voluble as always, talking at length of Italy’s reascent to global masterpower, while Renata nodded agreement and winked mischievously at Theo. Nobody mentioned aqueducts, his service with the British army, or indeed why he was in Italy at all. After dinner Rodolfo suggested Renata take him into the old quarter to see the sights. ‘But keep away from trouble spots,’ he instructed, ‘don’t talk to undesirables and be home before midnight.’
He lent Theo a serge overcoat; Renata donned sable, took his arm and led him south along wide boulevards lined with municipal buildings sporting neo-classical arches and colonnades. ‘Government quarter,’ she said, quickening their pace, ‘boring as hell. That’s Treasury, there’s Agriculture, Defence, over there’s Justice. Come on, I want to show you something in Trevi.’ Hurrying past the Piazza dell’Esedra with its famous Naiads fountain, they were soon entering narrower cobbled streets crowded with tightly packed, stucco-walled houses whose terracotta roofs were criss-crossed with wires and washing lines. Overhead women gossiped, babies cried, couples argued, somebody played a clarinet; at street level old men sat watching the crowds as they wandered the countless bars, osterie and restaurants.
‘In here!’ Renata pulled him down steps to a tavern thick with cigarette smoke and the noise of raucous singing. Elbowing her way through the crowd she dragged Theo up to a tiny stage where three musicians were tuning a violin to a trumpet and accordion. They wore leather breeches with white shirts and scarlet waistcoats and felt hats with goat brushes on the side. Soon they stepped forward and began to play.
‘This isn’t…’
Renata grinned. ‘Just listen, Theo!’
It was like being transported to his childhood, to his grandfather’s knee in the room above the print shop, listening to folk music on the gramophone while Josef thumped time with his boot: the real Tyrolean music of the mountains, rhythmic, melodic, alive with wit and energy. The tune sounded familiar and he began to clap in time; soon the whole bar was singing and stamping along.
‘Thought you’d enjoy a taste of home!’ she shouted above the din.
‘It’s amazing, Renata, thank you, it takes me right back!’
‘Remember the ice-cream parlour, and Papa’s sports car?’
‘How cou
ld I not? I was in love with your curls!’
Later they walked slowly home, her arm through his, her head on his shoulder.
‘What are you doing here, Theo?’ she asked eventually.
‘Has your father said anything?’
‘Nothing. Only that you are passing through and won’t be staying.’
‘That is true.’
‘Why, where are you going? To England again?’
‘My mother needs me.’
‘What do you do there?’
‘It’s complicated. Probably best if we don’t go into it.’
‘Are you spying on us? For the British?’
‘Renata, that’s absurd!’
‘It’s all right, I wouldn’t tell. Although Mother thinks you are.’
They had returned to the area near the government quarter. Rounding a corner they arrived at a piazza with stone steps leading to an imposing square-fronted building. A line of black limousines waited below, while on the steps barriers had been erected with policemen to hold back a small crowd of onlookers.
‘What is this place?’
‘It’s the opera. Must be some big-wig concert going on. Come on, let’s see.’
As they watched from the barrier, the main doors opened and guests began to emerge, the women in evening gowns and furs, the men in dinner suits or uniforms. After an initial exodus, a second more important cluster appeared, about a dozen men in Italian army uniform, a few senior Blackshirts, several expensively gowned women, and in their midst a solitary figure in field grey, his boots highly shined, his cap and gloves in his hand, the unmistakable glint of the Iron Cross at his throat.
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