“Let’s continue. The girl’s father flies into a rage upon hearing this news from his elder daughter, perhaps because he had ambitious plans for the young one’s future. Let us hypothesize that the father tried to solve the problem by immediately sending the girl away from the villa and directly confronting the German soldier to persuade him to desist. Then, as sometimes happens, circumstances altered the course of events, so to speak. At the moment of the villa’s evacuation, the love-struck soldier finds himself having to choose between returning to battle or trying to flee the country. The colonel was probably thinking along the same lines. He found himself in the same situation, and let’s not forget that he was a dyed-in-the-wool military man with a precise code of honor and had never been a fanatical Nazi. So let us assume that, at that moment, the colonel did everything in his power to make an escape possible. But then the hand of fate enters our story. In an ironic coincidence, it is none other than the girl’s father who is called upon to organize the two Germans’ flight through the mountains, something he did quite routinely and with excellent results.
“That left the question of the girl to be dealt with, and what better solution than to entrust her to her young friend and future sister-in-law and her father, which would meanwhile also solidify Cappelletti’s bond with his best business partner? But something, at this point, must have escaped his control. Right when she is supposed to leave with her future sister-in-law, Margherita disappears. Everyone looks for her but no one can find her, nobody knows where she’s gone off to. Nobody except one person.”
“Is that a hypothesis or a question?”
“Both, Madame.”
All right—Stefania thought—the moment has come, the game is beginning. And, just as she’d hoped, Germaine Durand made the first move.
“Then who, in your opinion, Inspector, could have known where Margherita was?”
“You, Madame, naturally. And maybe your husband, or maybe both of you.”
“It’s an interesting hypothesis, but you’ve no proof to support it. Some coffee, my dear?”
A maid arrived with the coffee tray. The conversation was interrupted for a few moments that to Stefania seemed to last an eternity.
“Thank you, Luisa. You can just leave everything here. We’ll take care of it.”
The maid nodded and left as quietly as she’d come.
“Would you like some pastry?”
Stefania was surprised to see a platter of apple sfogliatine, the kind she loved, though these were in a format unfamiliar to her, smaller and in different shapes: some shaped like swans, others like flowers with open petals.
“Those are my favorites. I always get them at the Pasticceria Manzoni. They’re delicious, though they make them bigger there, and in simpler shapes like stuffed fagottini.”
Madame smiled.
“These are made specially for us, whenever we come to stay by the lake. It’s sort of a family tradition. The first time was many years ago, when they brought us pastries like this for a birthday party, and the birthday girl, who adored the swans on the lake, just loved them. Ever since then we order them in this shape, and luckily there’s still someone there who knows how to make them. They told me it’s not easy to work such fine, stuffed dough in that way. Do you know what a pastry like that is called? A Margherita.”
“Did she like the swans on the lake?”
“Yes, whenever they would pass this part of the villa she would sit there spellbound, watching them, until they disappeared from view.”
Instinctively, Madame Durand turned her eyes to the lake, gazing into the distance. It was only for a moment, but when she turned back around she realized that Stefania was observing her. She sat there for a moment in silence, as though waiting for something. Then she nodded.
“I knew that Margherita wouldn’t be coming with me to Switzerland. I also knew why and I knew where she intended to go when she disappeared from the house. Just as her sister knew all these things.”
“Sister Maria? Are you sure?”
“Try asking the good woman again, perhaps her memory will have improved. Of course she knew. I told her myself. I told her everything.
“After we left the villa I found Margherita in the house where Maria had set me up while I waited for the car sent by my father to arrive. We were in an apartment left uninhabited for years, in a very old, uncomfortable stone house. The building still exists, just a few hundred yards from here. Do you know the Peverelli café in Lenno? That’s the building, though it’s been completely restructured over the years. So we spent some time together in a freezing little room looking out over the meadows and woods, chatting and making plans for the future. Nobody knew that Margherita was coming to see me. She would come down from the house in the mountain in the afternoon and we would talk. Then before nightfall she would go back up the mountain to avoid arousing suspicion. For those two days I never once saw my father-in-law or my husband. I was told they were away, even though I was certain they were busy up in the mountains with their business of clandestine expatriations. They were staying in some Alpine huts that belonged to them. I can’t tell you where they were exactly, though it was somewhere in the wooded area near the San Primo Pass. Even my sister-in-law, Maria, had got rid of her nurse’s uniform and put on some boots, a heavy woolen sweater, and wore a rifle strapped across her shoulder. She was always coming and going with one of their men. To look at them, they seemed like simple peasants or farmers. But in fact they were going around armed to the teeth.
“I happened to see them a few times, on those rare occasions when I went to that area. They would appear and then leave. They would eat and then sleep on benches, fully dressed. My mother-in-law would cook for everyone and look after that poor boy she always had by her side.
“Nobody paid us any mind, except for the person Maria had assigned the task of bringing us two meals a day. I never left the place during those days, whereas Margherita would come and go, wander about town, exchanging a few words with the local men at the bar and attracting nasty stares from other women, who said that wasn’t any place for girls.
“When we were alone, Margherita would tell me about Dressler and fantasize about things she’d never seen and knew nothing about, such as Germany, wooden houses, her Karl playing the piano and the church organ, having all these little blond children, and so on.
“I told her she was mad, that she could have the best things in life: comfort, friends, peace and quiet, and men all falling at her feet in a country that wasn’t at war, whereas all of Europe was going up in flames. She wouldn’t even listen to me, lost as she was in thoughts of her dream. She would take out her locket, kiss the two locks of hair intertwined inside it, one blond, the other dark brown, and then sigh and smile.”
“I’m sorry, but are you sure Margherita had the locket with her when you were in that house?”
“Of course, she always wore it around her neck. Why do you ask?”
“Just a detail, I’m sorry, you can continue.”
“Margherita had been in an anxious state ever since her father had sent her away from the villa. But then she’d managed to get news of Karl—don’t ask me how, because I don’t know. And she therefore knew about his escape plans, and for days she felt torn between the relief of knowing he would soon be safe and the fear that she wouldn’t see him again for a long time.
“When she learned that we’d left the villa, she took an interest in us, in the hope that we had news for her. As soon as we were alone, she came secretly to see us and anxiously questioned us. I hadn’t seen either Dressler or Colonel von Kesselbach and had no news of them. For the past few days we’d been thinking only of the life awaiting us in Switzerland—also because Cosette, my maid, was hardly any more than a little girl: she didn’t speak a word of Italian, and wasn’t even able to make her way around the area.
“Then Margherita tried to find out more fro
m Maria, after joining up with her in the mountains. But Maria was very hard on her and told her Karl had left and that she must stop looking for him. She should forget him as quickly as possible, just as he had forgotten her.
“This was a blatant lie, of course, because at that moment Karl and the colonel were still in Italy and hiding not very far from there, waiting for calm to return after the German troops garrisoned at the villa had left. At that point Margherita started fearing the worst for herself and her beloved. She cried and cried. Then, driven by despair, she pulled herself together and, as soon as she could do so without being seen, she went back out in search of information and to try to talk to some of the people who were coming and going between the town and the mountain. That was how she ran into Giovanni, who was coming down into town on some errands.”
There was a long pause.
Stefania made a great effort to remain silent, to ask no questions but merely let the woman resume the thread of her account on her own.
Germaine Durand had lost a good deal of her natural aplomb. She kept stirring the coffee in her cup without ever bringing it to her lips. Moments later, she resumed speaking, her tone of voice even more subdued than before.
“Sometimes the worst things that befall us are caused by the people we love most. Isn’t that terrible?”
“I’m not sure I understand, Madame Durand.”
“The people who love us, and whom we love, sometimes don’t have the courage to say no to us, precisely because of the bond that unites us. They are unable to deny us what we demand most insistently, even if it is harmful to us. And in this way they often become, unwittingly, the cause of our downfall. You see, Inspector, Giovanni adored Margherita, he would never have done anything to harm her, he would have sacrificed his own life to defend and protect her. But that one time he gave in to her. He told her where Karl was and said he was about to go over the border. That admission, which came from an excess of love for his sister, was the beginning of the end.
“After talking to her brother, Margherita came back to the house where I was staying. I remember those moments very clearly. She hugged me tightly and then told me what her brother had said. She was agitated and could barely stand still. She kept going over to the window, looking outside, and coming back, saying all the while that she’d always known and had never doubted him, and that Karl could never have forgotten her. He was there, nearby, just a few kilometers away.
“After her initial excitement, she seemed to calm down a little. She barely touched the food that the woman had brought us. Then she lay down on the bed beside me. She was probably unable to fall asleep, but I did. And to this day it gives me no rest, though more than fifty years have passed. Later—I don’t know how much later, but it was already dark outside—I was woken up by the feeling of somebody touching my face. It was Margherita, dressed all in dark clothes with a dark scarf tied around her head and a small backpack on her shoulders.
“‘I’m going,’ she said to me. ‘I can’t sit still here any longer. I’m going to Karl. He’s crossing the border, maybe tonight, and if I don’t see him now I don’t know if or when I’ll ever see him again.’
“‘Where are you going? Are you mad? Can’t you see it’s dark outside?’ I replied, still half asleep. ‘How are you going to go out without being noticed? Do you know that if somebody sees you it’ll be more trouble for your father? And what’s the point, anyway? If he goes to Switzerland, and you come, too, sooner or later you can meet up with him there.’
“I tried to persuade her, speaking softly for fear of waking up Cosette, but it was no use. She’d made up her mind. She embraced me one last time, whispering in my ear: ‘I may return before dawn. But if morning comes and you don’t see me, don’t worry. It will all go well, and one day, very soon I hope, we’ll see each other again.’
“Those were her last words. And she headed for the stairs in silence. The last I saw of her was her slender figure blowing a kiss from her fingertips at the window. All around there was only the moon’s pale glow.
“I was left alone in the dark, silent room. Cosette, who’d set up a cot in a corner of the next room, hadn’t heard a thing. She was sleeping peacefully. I pulled the blankets back up over me. I was worried, of course, but mostly incredulous. I just couldn’t understand how anyone could risk everything, even life, for . . .”
“For love?”
“Yes.”
Madame Durand finally set her coffee cup down on the table and leaned back in her armchair.
“It all happened very quickly. When I was finally able to fall asleep again, it was already daylight. I spent the morning and afternoon in a kind of trance. From where I was it wasn’t possible to communicate with Giovanni or the other Cappellettis. Towards evening there was a knock at the door. Moments later somebody came inside. They had a heavy step. I could hear it from the stairway. It was Maria, who’d come in with a sack of food.
“‘It’s time, let’s go. Germaine, your father’s man is here. You have to leave. Hurry, the car’s waiting. Margherita, wake up. And hurry.’”
“She was still talking when she realized her sister wasn’t there. She fell silent for a few moments, as if bewildered.
“‘Where’s Margherita?’ she asked.
“‘She’s gone,’ I said.
“‘Gone? What do you mean, gone? Where’d she go?’
“‘She went to be with Karl. Where, I don’t know.’
“‘And how did she know he was still around?’
“‘Your brother told her. Yesterday afternoon.’
“She stood in the doorway without moving. Then she shook herself. ‘The imbecile!’ she said angrily, meaning her brother, then added, ‘And you two, hurry up. They’re waiting for you downstairs.’ And she turned on her heels without another word and raced outside.
“When we got downstairs Maria was already gone. Waiting for us were two men, who then led us through orchards and fields and then up a deserted trail. At last we came to the car that was waiting for us. Its lights were off and it was hidden behind a row of trees outside of town. We immediately headed in the direction of the border crossing. We passed through without a hitch. Nobody stopped us, and a few hours later, at dawn, we were drinking our first coffee in Lugano, on the other side of the border.
“What happened next I didn’t find out until many months later, after the war was over and I saw my husband again in Italy. In the meantime my father had been visited by Colonel von Kesselbach, who had arrived safely in Switzerland. Reunited with his wife and children after a long stay at a famous ophthalmological clinic, he had moved into a house not too far from us, at Vevey, which belonged to some relatives of his wife.”
“The Montaltis?”
Madame looked at her in astonishment.
“Yes, but how did you know? Do you know them?”
“In a way. But that’s of no importance. Please, continue.”
“The colonel had come to see my father. He wanted to thank him for the assistance he’d provided him and his family in the difficult circumstances of their escape from Italy.”
With a little help from Remo Cappelletti, thought Stefania, deciding that it was best not to interrupt Madame with the addition of that detail. Neither did she mention the sale of Villa Regina to the Cappellettis, made possible, at least in part, by the money Durand had paid out to the Montaltis. There would be other occasions for covering that aspect of things. What mattered right now was that Madame continue her story.
“In fact the colonel asked for news of Dressler, whom he hadn’t seen since the night of his escape, in the hope that my father might reassure him that the young man had managed in one way or another to escape to safety.
“My father was vague. He knew nothing about the young soldier or what had happened to him, and all he could do was promise to put the question to all those who had materially participated in his
escape. I wasn’t present for that exchange, but I did manage to catch a few snippets of the conversation when I walked past my father’s study.
“I remember feeling a stabbing pain in my heart, a kind of dire premonition. I’m not superstitious, I assure you, and never have been. At that moment, however, for the first time, I felt sure about something—that is, that young Kessler had not made it, and neither had Margherita.
“And it was terrible, I can tell you. I felt responsible for the fate of both. There had been moments where I’d thought this before, but I’d always refused to consider it a concrete possibility. Haven’t you ever thought that those we love, those we love differently from others, could never die?”
“Of course I have, Madame, I’ve thought that many times. About my father, for example.”
The lady nodded in understanding, then leaned back in her armchair again and closed her eyes, as if wanting to rest. A deep silence fell over the little open-air sitting room, despite the constant chatter of birds in the garden. The lapping of the lake waters and the hum of a lawnmower in the distance barely disturbed the calm.
After a few minutes of this Stefania began to feel a little awkward. She didn’t quite know what to do. She felt as if she’d become transparent. She certainly couldn’t stay there forever, she thought. And so she did the first thing that came to mind. She coughed politely. Madame seemed to rouse herself and smiled at her good-naturedly.
“Forgive me, my dear. Where were we?”
Stefania figured it was best to carry on.
“At the moment of your return to Italy after the end of the war.”
“Well, it was very simple. Giovanni took me to the cemetery to see Margherita’s grave.”
“And that’s all? He didn’t tell you anything about how she died?”
“Of course he did. He said she was shot in the mountains, killed by gunfire. They never did find out who shot her—whether it was the Germans, the Fascists, or the partisans, or whether she was caught in the crossfire of a gunfight between warring factions.”
Shadows on the Lake Page 23
