At one point she thought she recognized the profile of the mountain above the San Primo Pass and a stretch of the passage’s mule track in the background of a group photo of Blackshirts posing with SS men and dogs on leashes.
Now it really was late. She grabbed the folder of printed pages overflowing the tray and ran out.
It was one of those rare times when everything strangely went smoothly: green lights, little traffic, few driver’s-training-school vehicles in front of her.
She arrived outside Camilla’s school ten minutes early. She even found a parking spot and then leaned against the wall, waiting and exchanging a few smiles with some of the other mothers chatting among themselves.
Though she hardly knew anyone there, she enjoyed being in the others’ company. The cold season was over and the azaleas in the school garden were in bloom. It was spring again, even if she hadn’t fully realized it until that moment.
Cami came out of the school holding her down parka in her hand.
“Already here, Mommy?”
“It’s vacation time! Want to go to Cernobbio for hot chocolate?”
They got in the car. Half an hour later they were seated at the Caffè Onda with a tray of pastries in front of them. Hot chocolate for Stefania, strawberries and cream for Camilla. The little girl talked nonstop, telling her all the latest news about her friends and teachers. Every so often Stefania would turn her gaze towards the window and the lake outside, which lay calm in sunlight. She felt good.
They went shopping at the Bennet supermarket in Tavernola and came home with a mountain of shopping bags. For once the refrigerator was stuffed full. There was no room left for anything.
“It’s so nice to open the fridge and see all these good things,” said Cami.
“Yes, but don’t eat your Kinders now, because the pasta’s almost ready.”
Later they both got into the big bed to watch cartoons, falling asleep together. Around three o’clock Stefania woke up, stretched, and looked at the clock. It was still early. She fluffed the pillow under Cami’s head, gave her a kiss, and went back to sleep. Ron was sleeping quietly between them.
The following morning the police station was silent and calm. Almost all the boys were out to provide security for the annual silk manufacturers’ convention, and there was a coming and going of people and blue squad cars.
At the bar behind the station she ran into Lucchesi.
“Any idea where Piras has run off to?” she asked impulsively. The two were always together.
“He’s on leave till Saturday.”
“What about you?”
“I’m off to the market this morning.”
“To buy what?”
“To the fish market, Inspector. For work. Last night the custodian was assaulted and two shipping containers full of oysters just in from Normandy were stolen.”
“If you have any time when you’re done, could you drop in at this address? It’s just a five-minute walk from the fish market.”
She handed him a piece of paper.
“It’s the local Jewish Documentation Center. I want you to get every bit of information they have on a certain family, whose name I wrote down for you.”
“The Montalti family?” he said upon seeing the name. “I used to know a Montalti; he had a bookshop near my parents’ place when I was a kid, but I would never have guessed he was Jewish!”
“So what? It’s not like they’re a different color or something, Lucchesi. If we don’t find anything there, I want you to go and visit your friend. I’ll be in my office all morning.”
She went back to the office, drafted a couple of reports in a hurry, and then took from her purse the photocopies she’d made at the newspaper office. The photo of Villa Regina slid out of the envelope and onto the floor. Stefania picked it up and started studying it. It was of course better than the picture in the newspaper; you could see a little more. Of the three military doctors, one had a huge dark mustache. Then there were two stiff-looking Red Cross nurses, one rather elderly, the other younger, in capes and uniforms with the cross motif, and three others, quite young, in white dresses with starched bibs. Then two wounded soldiers standing next to the doctors, one with a rather large bandage over his eye, the other with crutches sticking out from under his overcoat. The others were sitting in front of them, one with his arm in a sling, another in a wheelchair, a third with his right leg in a cast and extended in front of him.
The group was posing at the bottom of the grand staircase of Villa Regina, while in the background, against a cloudless sky, flew the flags of the Nazi swastika and the Red Cross.
Stefania tried to read the expressions on people’s faces, the fine details, but there wasn’t much to go on. Under the magnifying glass the outlines started to blur. With the naked eye, however, you could with some effort imagine other perspectives. One of the two doctors had himself photographed in profile, striking a stiff, somewhat comical pose, as in a ceremonial photo. The eldest of the Red Cross nurses was as stocky and puffed up as an old hen ready to be made into broth, with neck extended and nose in the air, also like a chicken.
The other nurses were really just girls: a little blonde with her hair still in braids, and a dark one with her hair down and wearing a sweet expression. The soldiers were all smiling but one, the one with his leg in a cast sitting in front of the nurses. He was blond, wore glasses, and had a pensive look in his eyes.
Let’s hope the enlargement comes out better, thought Stefania.
At that moment she realized she hadn’t yet given the photograph to Selvini to enlarge, and she remembered Giulio. Glancing at her watch, she thought she still had time to read the articles closely, take the photo to Selvini, and then go see Giulio. On the way back she would drop by the dry cleaner’s to pick up her blue suit.
The office phone rang. A private number.
“Am I disturbing you? Hi, it’s Valli.”
“Valli!” exclaimed Stefania. “You never disturb me, on the contrary . . .”
She fell silent, fearing, as usual, that she’d said too much.
“Tomorrow evening at the Press Club there’s going to be a presentation of a book that talks about our mountains: We Went Smuggling: Stories of Contrabandeers and Mountain Guides. A subject very close to your heart. I was wondering—if you have no other engagements—whether you felt like dropping by. It won’t last more than an hour.”
“I certainly don’t have any engagements, but I’ll have to see if Martina has.”
“Is she your daughter?”
“No, she’s the babysitter. For any after-dinner activities I have to reserve her in advance.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll call you back later, if you don’t mind.”
“Let me give you my cell phone number.”
Stefania smiled.
“What do you think?”
“It’s an old picture of a column of German soldiers on the march, escorting a medical convoy.”
“Yes, but where are they going?”
“Just read the article. ‘For strategic reasons the military hospital that for nearly two years has welcomed the valorous soldiers of Germany wounded in action on various fronts is being closed. Those who can take up arms again have been requartered at Cernobbio.’”
“Yes, but where are they at the moment the photograph is being taken?”
“I’d say about two or three kilometers from your mother’s house.”
“Just outside the gate of Villa Regina?”
“The one you pointed out to me last year? Probably. And so?”
“What they were evacuating at that moment was the medical facility they’d housed at Villa Regina. Look here, there’s no doubt about it!”
She handed him the photo.
“Of course, to evacuate a place you have to occupy it first. Two
years sounds a bit exaggerated, but in any case whoever wrote the article must have informed himself.”
“So they were closing the ‘lazaretto’ they’d created at Villa Regina, and the soldiers still in fighting form had to return to the barracks.”
“Sensational. But aside from the imaginativeness of calling the circumstances of a veritable retreat ‘strategic,’ I don’t see why this is news. Anything else?”
“Knock it off with that mocking tone and just read the article. It talks about deserters captured and shot as they were trying to cross the border, about shoot-outs and mountain huts being set on fire, about blowing up the lairs of brigands in cahoots with the deserters, and we’re at San Primo! Here’s the old mule path of the mountain pass! It’s perfectly clear!”
“Fantastic. I think that during that period, and after the eighth of September, that sort of thing was happening every day in that area.”
“Maybe the deserters included some German soldiers who didn’t feel like returning to battle.”
“Sure, why not? Along with a good number of Italian ex-soldiers and a vast assortment of Jews, victims of political persecution, partisans, and so on.”
“Why are you like that, Giulio?” asked Stefania.
“Like what? It’s you who are ‘like that.’ Jesus Christ, you’re a police detective, Stefania. You’re conducting an investigation, you’re not trying to think up the plot of a novel. Don’t confuse reality with your imagination. Do you remember what they used to say at the academy?”
“Aside from ‘about-face’?”
“That you mustn’t manipulate clues to ‘construct’ a version of events. You must act critically, as if all possibilities were always open, right up until the moment when your hypotheses find concrete confirmation.”
“What a fucking bore, Giulio!”
Giulio fell silent. He went over to the window and stood there looking at the rush-hour cars go by. Then, unexpectedly, he spoke again.
“Just be careful, please.”
Stefania turned around abruptly.
“Careful about what?”
“Your excursions to lakeside villas and related courtesy calls have ruffled some feathers in the higher spheres, so to speak. Carboni also tried to make you realize this, but you weren’t listening. You’re going to be relieved of the case as soon as Arisi returns from his magistrates’ convention. You’ve got a week, maybe two, and no more. And maybe it’s a good thing.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody somewhere, with a lot of power, told somebody else that you have to stop sticking your nose everywhere. You have nothing concrete to go on, and a lot of time has already passed. How long do you want to carry on with this business?”
“Good God, I’ve barely started! Some investigations go on for years. And that young man up there has been awaiting justice for sixty years.”
“Well, you’ve been warned. If they transfer you to Pantelleria on forced vacation don’t take it out on me, okay? Do you understand, or should I say it to you in French?”
“Given the circumstances, I’d prefer it in German, thanks.”
“Damn, I guess you really did go to the fish market this morning,” said Stefania, holding her nose.
“Of course, why do you ask?”
“Never mind. Were you able to go to that other place as well?”
“They kept me there for over an hour. A rather nice secretary spent a while looking on the computer, then printed up some pages for me. I left them on your desk.”
“What else?”
“That’s all. She said she could also give me some information of a general nature. But for other details—concerning people still alive, for example—you have to present a written request.”
“I’ll go and get them straightaway. Thanks, Lucchesi. Work well this afternoon.”
Back in her office, she lit a Muratti and tried to collect her thoughts. She didn’t have many days left. What could she do in so little time? The photo enlargement wouldn’t be ready until the following morning, and at any rate she didn’t even know whether it would serve any purpose.
She opened the envelope Lucchesi had left for her and started skimming through the pages.
Montalti.
An introduction to the origins of the name, followed by graphics representing the geographical distribution of the families that bore it. There were Montaltis all over the country, even in Tuscany, as Lucchesi had said; all the name’s possible variants, the different branches of the family, the notable members. Jewelers, mostly, but also businessmen, professionals, and bankers.
On the Milanese banking Montaltis, there were three lines in all. The descriptions of the family’s businesses ended more or less with the end of the nineteenth century.
Stefania felt miffed. At that time the Regina Montalti who would give the villa its current name wasn’t even born yet. After a moment’s calculation she had to conclude that this information wouldn’t be of much use to her, either. Even Lucchesi, in the end, had only wasted her time. This was information she could have easily pulled off the Web.
She dialed the number of the Jewish Documentation Center. A woman answered, and Stefania naturally thought, from the tone of her voice—polite and inflexible—that it was the same person Lucchesi had described to her.
“Inspector, as I said to your officer this morning, if you’re look for something other than information of a general nature on the history of the Jewish people or of Italian Jews, you need to submit a written request. For example, if you needed information concerning a particular family still in existence, or concerning recent events, let’s say from the twentieth century to now, you would need a letter of presentation specifying in detail the reasons for your request. Our center will then evaluate whether the reasons given are compatible with the purpose of our center.”
“This involves an investigation,” Stefania said bluntly.
“Of course, Inspector, and as soon as we receive your written request, we will do everything we can to provide you with the maximum cooperation possible, and an immediate reply by mail. Have a good day.”
Stefania felt perplexed, then dialed an internal number.
“Lucchesi, come upstairs for a minute. We have to send a fax right away. I’ll leave it on my desk. I’m going downstairs for a coffee.”
On the stairway she remembered she was supposed to call Martina.
“Could you stay with Cami for a couple of extra hours tomorrow evening?”
Affirmative reply.
Then, after waffling for a few minutes, she dialed Valli’s number.
“Hi, it’s Stefania. So, tomorrow evening’s okay. Let’s meet directly there at nine. It’s not far from my house.”
Their quick conversation over, her thoughts turned back to the investigation.
She picked up the photocopied newspaper pages and reread for the umpteenth time the same articles she’d had Giulio read. She looked in the cabinet for the small folder in which she’d put together everything to do with the dead young man. On the cover of the main folder she saw the initials K.D.
She cleared her desktop and spread out all the sheets of paper, like pieces of a puzzle.
As a little girl she used to love puzzles. Her father bought her many. They would assemble them together, in a kind of family ritual. When she would get one that was particularly difficult and she didn’t know where to begin, she would start with the outside pieces, looking for those with at least one flat side and especially the four that had two flat sides. Which were the corners of the picture, its foundation stones.
Then, starting from the sides, you went towards the center, one piece at a time.
An idea came back to her: The stone discarded by the builders became the cornerstone. Which was what she’d thought when first studying the photographs of the ruined cottage and the strange righ
t angle of wall that ended inside the mountain, enveloped in the roots of a wild fig tree.
The only problem was that her investigation was proving more difficult than finding puzzle pieces with flat sides.
She started shuffling the pages around and lining them up in chronological order from left to right.
1944: Remo Cappelletti acquires Villa Regina, his family poses for a portrait taken by the town photographer. They’re all there, with the head of the family standing, Caterina sitting and holding Battista close; then Maria, the old maid, and finally Giovanni and Margherita.
The same year, in March, the newspaper shows Villa Regina occupied by the Germans and turned into a hospital.
How the hell did that come about?
Raffaella told her that she’d gotten the information in her article in part from a prior article published in a different magazine a few years earlier, but that in any case the Cappelletti family had very carefully vetted the text.
The Cappelletti family—that is, Germaine Durand and her children, thought Stefania.
Because at the time, in 2001, her husband, Giovanni Cappelletti, had already been dead for a while. Raffaella probably hadn’t bothered to dig too deep. After all, what could readers in the year 2001 have cared about such a detail?
On the upper right, she put the year 1945: Villa Regina evacuated, the Germans in retreat. Able-bodied men have to return to the front. Of those attempting to flee into Switzerland, some don’t make it. Firing squads, cottages torched in reprisal or blown up with dynamite.
She double-checked the dates of the articles.
January 21, February 20, March 18, March 23, 1945: it was all coming down, the great tragedy was in its final act.
In 1947, however, something happened: Giovanni married Mademoiselle Durand, and the family “moved into” the villa.
Which family?
The married couple, and the children who would soon be coming, and an army of maids, nannies, farmhands, and laundresses like Tata Lucia. Everyone—except Caterina, Giovanni’s mother, who’d stayed behind at her mountain house with her son, whom nobody wanted at the villa because he was a bother. Caterina never got tired of repeating that the villa was cursed.
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