In Time of War (Part Six of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  “Jean ...” she began shining her own torch in the direction of the beam. But no, it was not Jean. He would have said something, uttered a reassuring greeting.

  Then a voice said tremulously, “Dora, it’s me, Mathilde.”

  “Mathilde!” Dora exclaimed. “What has happened? Where are the others?”

  “Oh, Dora!” Mathilde flung herself against her breast and Dora could feel tears on her face. “The Gestapo have been. They took everyone away. Oh, Dora you must flee. You must go at once. I am sure they will be back. They went everywhere looking for you. They said that they knew you were a British spy and they should have arrested you a long time ago.”

  “My God!” Dora abruptly sat down and stared at the beam of light on the floor. “There is no electricity.”

  “They cut the wires, the telephone. They broke open the door, ten or twelve of them, after surrounding the place.”

  “How long ago was this?” Dora felt as though an icy hand was clutching at her heart.

  “An hour, two hours, I don’t know. After dark. I was just bringing the men some coffee. They broke in and took them outside, bundled them straight into a van and drove away. There were about six of them, including Jean.”

  “All the leaders of the Resistance in the area,” Dora said woodenly. Then, looking at the frightened face of her companion, “Did they find the wireless?”

  “Oh yes. They broke down the door and took it away.”

  “And the codes?”

  “Everything that was there they took.”

  Dora gently detached herself from Mathilde who had gradually recovered her self-possession, and walked slowly around the kitchen. There were a few pages of blank paper on the floor – difficult to tell how far the meeting had progressed – some broken glasses, an empty packet of cigarettes. Several of the chairs lay on their backs.

  “They had no chance,” she said turning to Mathilde who now sat dejectedly on one of the chairs.

  “No chance!” Mathilde shook her head.

  Dora’s eyes narrowed and she looked speculatively at her companion. “If they took the men and the wireless. If everything was so well prepared, and clearly it was,” Dora advanced slowly towards her. “If ...” Suddenly she shone the beam of her torch right into Mathilde’s face catching her unawares. Mathilde’s eyes widened and she put up a hand to shade them from the glare as Dora continued, “If they took the men and the wireless, if they ransacked the house and searched everywhere for me,” Dora’s voice dropped almost to a whisper, “why didn’t they take you?”

  Mathilde opened her mouth and then closed it again, her mind clearly working furiously for an explanation. Suddenly the sound of a car outside broke the tension and before they could take shelter the back door was pushed open and the beam of another torch, this time a powerful one, stabbed the darkness. From the glow Dora could see the bearded face of Gregor the leader of a réseau south of the Marne.

  “Dora, are you all right?”

  Dora nodded still numbed by the realisation of her suspicion, apparently now justified, of a woman she had never really liked or trusted. Why had she not obeyed that instinct in the first place to send her away?

  But Gregor was saying urgently, “We must get you out of here at once, Dora. You must leave immediately. No packing, nothing. They have taken Jean and the others to Gestapo Headquarters.”

  “And why didn’t they take Mathilde?” Dora swung her torch over in her direction. “I was just asking her. She is our new wireless operator. She has only been here a short time. Logically, therefore, it must have been Mathilde who betrayed them.”

  Both Gregor and Dora now fastened their eyes on Mathilde who had her head in her hands. Gregor drew from his pocket a small snub-nosed pistol which he pointed at the cowering girl.

  “Please, please,” she pleaded raising her head, tears once again pouring down her cheeks. “They forced me to do it. They have arrested my fiancé. They said they would shoot him if I didn’t turn Jean over to them. They had suspected his importance in the Resistance, the existence of the wireless, but they wanted proof. I am so sorry, so sorry.”

  “You think that will save your boyfriend, or you, you silly bitch?” Gregor clicked the safety catch off. “When people are dying every day for their country does it mean nothing to you to betray a whole circuit? Here,” he pointed to Dora, “is an Englishwoman who has given up the safety of her country to serve France and the cause of freedom. Are you not ashamed to be in her presence?”

  As he took careful aim, Dora seized his arm.

  “No, please, Gregor,” she cried. “There is enough bloodshed. I forbid it.”

  “Of what use is her life?” Gregor snarled brushing Dora’s hand aside. “You think they will let her go? She is as good as dead, anyway. They will have no further use for her now.” He raised his weapon and aimed it but Dora once more deflected his arm. “I say no, Gregor. I say no!”

  “Very well.” Gregor shrugged and put his gun back in his pocket. “Let her scrape a living from the earth like the beasts. She will be a fugitive. Her life is not worth living anyway. There is no hiding place for people like her.”

  Still trembling with fear Mathilde continued to gaze at the floor. Gregor took Dora by the arm and bundled her out of the door.

  “Quickly, we have no time. We have a plane landing in a few hours and I think we can get you on it.”

  Dora looked back towards the house which she loved. “Can’t I pack just a few things?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Gregor insisted propelling her towards the car and pushing her into the back seat. “There is not a moment to lose.” He glanced back at the house. “And with that little traitor, since you made me spare her miserable life, we have even less time.”

  “There is no telephone and she can’t drive,” Dora said. “Even if she does want to betray me, which I now doubt, she will have her work cut out to make contact with anyone before dawn. But, Gregor I am so worried about the animals. Who will feed them?”

  “I will see to everything once you are on the plane. We have also to try and devise a plan to rescue Jean and the others before they are sent to Paris.”

  Gregor started the engine of the aged Citroën which gave a worrying cough before it spluttered into life. “By that time you’ll be in England,” he turned to Dora and gave a grim smile, “if all goes well.”

  Part Two

  The Turning of the Tide

  1944-1947

  Chapter Nine

  March 1944

  Connie, hands deep in her pockets, wandered disconsolately around St Mark’s Square occasionally dropping a few crumbs that she had in her pockets for the pigeons who, like the rest of the population, were hungry. It was a blustery day and the waters from the lagoon had overflowed the piazza forming a thin film about an inch deep, an occurrence which was becoming more frequent. One day the whole of Venice might be under water and all its treasures lost.

  It seemed a horror not to be contemplated, and yet in comparison to the horrors of war what was the loss of a city, even an immortal one like Venice?

  After the German occupation all the Jews had been rounded up and deported. Everywhere there was an atmosphere of fear. People were frightened. More than ever Connie, alone now after Paolo’s death, felt she wanted to be gone.

  News of the war trickled slowly into the city. The propaganda which came over the Nazi-controlled wireless was ignored. Those who were able crouched over their radio sets, the volume very low, to try and catch the voice of Radio Free Europe.

  In January a massive Allied force had landed in Anzio, south of Rome, with the object of pressing on towards the capital, but it had met stiff resistance from the German army which still controlled the northern part of Italy, including Venice. Fierce fighting had centred on the town of Cassino and its beautiful and historic monastery was under attack.

  Acting on the advice of Doctor Fattorino, Connie hardly ever left the palazzo except, after his death, to accompany Paolo’s bod
y to the Island of San Michele for burial. It had been a sad but brief farewell with only a handful of mourners. Fearful of arousing the interest of the authorities there had been no Mass but merely a committal and blessing from the parish priest, Father Giuseppe. Connie had returned to the palazzo with the few mourners who had attended the ceremony, close childhood friends of Paolo, as well as Doctor Fattorino and Father Giuseppe.

  It was then that she had realised how few of Paolo’s friends she really knew despite the number of years she’d lived in Italy, both on her own and as his wife.

  The outbreak of war had seen the dispersal of most of the English community in Venice. When Italy had, not unexpectedly, entered the war on the side of Germany she had discovered that many of Paolo’s friends with their Fascist tendencies had approved. Like him, they were all monarchists, Roman Catholics and, at first anyway, had considered that Mussolini was good for Italy.

  Even with his fall and the collapse of Italy some of them hadn’t changed. Connie found that she had nothing in common with them, and a stiff formality prevailed. After the reception following the funeral few had hung about and she had seen none of them since.

  Thus she was condemned to a solitary existence made worse by worry about the war and the possible fate of her family from whom, inevitably, she had heard nothing.

  There were few people in the piazza nowadays, certainly no tourists, and those who lingered were often objects of suspicion. From the corner of her eye she saw a man who seemed to be watching her and, trying not to show her fear by walking too quickly, she disposed of the rest of her crumbs and, as a flock of pigeons swooped on them, exited through one of the arches in the piazza to lose herself in the maze of narrow side streets surrounding it.

  Once out of the square she walked quickly in the direction of the Rialto Bridge. Once or twice she slowed down, ostensibly to gaze into a shop window, when she would take a sideways glance in the direction she’d come, but there was no sign of anyone following her.

  Connie finally arrived, a little breathless and with a renewed sense of fear, at the Palazzo Colomb-Paravacini and let herself in. She still had her maid Elena and an ancient family retainer of Paolo’s, Francisco, and between them they looked after her. She and Paolo had long ago shut off more than half of the palazzo so as to give the servants less work. She now more or less lived in two rooms, her bedroom and a small salon which she used as a sitting room. All the large rooms were closed, the furniture covered with sheets. One had been opened for the funeral reception but as soon as the guests had departed the covers had been put on again and the doors locked.

  Connie was surprised to see a coat on one of the chairs in the hall with a man’s hat on top. As she divested herself of her own coat and hat and fluffed out her hair after a brief glance in the hall mirror, Francisco appeared and jerked his head towards the door of her sitting room.

  “You have a visitor Contessa. Conte Giacomo Colomb-Paravacini.”

  “Oh!” Connie exclaimed in surprise when the door opened and Paolo’s son stood looking at her.

  She had only met him a handful of times: once when he was still a schoolboy staying with his father during the holidays, and the few occasions after their marriage when he had come to visit his father. Giacomo was now in his thirties, married and the father of three children. He and his sister had never made a secret of the fact that they did not approve of her, not so much because she had taken the place of their mother (who had died quite young) but because she was a Protestant and a divorced woman, and because of this they thought their father should not have married her.

  As Connie walked towards him Giacomo greeted her formally with a little bow as he stretched out his hand.

  “I am sorry to have called on you like this without an announcement,” he said. “But you know it is very difficult to cross Italy now, especially as the Allied troops are advancing towards Rome.”

  “Do sit down, Giacomo.” Connie, addressing him in Italian, pointed to a chair. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

  Giacomo shrugged.

  “I don’t suppose you have whisky?”

  “Oh, I think we have whisky.” Connie looked at Francisco who hovered at the door.

  “Whisky for the Count please and I will have coffee.” Francisco bowed and withdrew.

  Giacomo, instead of accepting a seat, had crossed the room and stood by the window gazing across the canal for some time smoking a cigarette. Looking at him it was quite easy to imagine Paolo when young. Giacomo was tall, blond, urbane and quite handsome. He wore a double-breasted grey striped suit and two-tone brown and white shoes. There was, however, something about him that Paolo most definitely had not had: a shifty, rather mean expression, a way of avoiding looking directly into the eyes of the person he was addressing. Now, as he turned, his gaze was not on Connie but on some object on the far side of the room.

  “I am very sorry I couldn’t attend my father’s funeral. My sister too. It was impossible for us to get permission to leave Rome in so short a time. I still have my duties at the Ministry of the Interior and it would have been unwise for me to ask for leave.”

  “Unwise?” Connie raised an eyebrow.

  “To have drawn the attention of the Germans to father’s death.”

  “But your father was a perfectly respectable, law-abiding member of Venetian society. He hardly belonged to the criminal classes.”

  “However ...” Giacomo shuffled his feet. “If I want to keep my job I have to toe the line.”

  “And that means kowtowing to the Germans?” Connie’s lip curled with contempt.

  “They are the occupying power,” Giacomo replied haughtily. “They call the shots. I have a wife and family to support. I cannot single-handedly defy the occupying authorities, however much I might wish to do so.”

  “I suppose what you did not wish was to draw their attention to was the fact that your father had an English wife?”

  “Something like that.” Giacomo nodded, pointedly examining his well-manicured nails. “I always thought my father made a mistake. My mother was of the noble Da Biondi-Leoni family – she was a principessa ...” Giacomo with an expressive shrug of the shoulders, stared down his nose at Connie and she had great difficulty resisting the urge to slap his face.

  Instead she said coldly, “Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me why you are here other than to insult me? In other words please state your business and be gone.”

  “Certainly.” Giacomo extinguished his cigarette, sat down and crossed his legs. “You may not realise, Contessa – I am not sure how much my father told you – but the Palazzo Colomb-Paravacini is entailed to the eldest son of the family.” He paused and gazed around him, “This all belongs to me. The lawyers have been in touch with me and told me of my legal rights. I know that, to everyone’s surprise, my father left very little money, but I also understand you are a woman not without means – maybe that is why he married you – and that you have, or had, your own residence on the other side of the canal, so this I’m sure will cause you no hardship or distress.”

  Connie swallowed. “I sold my Venetian residence when I married your father. To find another home at this stage will not be easy. It is also a slur on me, and your father, to say he married me for my money. As far as I know he had ample means for us both.” She bit her lip. “As it happens money was something we never discussed. Somehow it didn’t seem to us to be necessary. We had what we wanted and before the war could live well. Now, well,” she shrugged, “we were in the same boat as everyone else. As his lawyers were in Rome I have not been in touch with them since his death, or they with me.”

  “No, but they were in touch with me. Perhaps my father was not completely honest with you, I don’t know.” Giacomo frowned. “Most of his fortune came from my mother the Principessa Magdalena Da Biondi-Leoni. When she died her fortune was divided between me and my sister. I think there was some small allowance for my father. However he is dead now and that no longer applies. The questi
on is, what to do about you?” Giacomo produced his silver case and selected a fresh cigarette. “It is not impossible, I think, for you to find a suitable property. Many people, reduced to various states of poverty by the war, anxious to get their hands on some money, will be prepared to sell.”

  “But I am not in a position to buy. The bulk of my fortune remains invested in England.”

  “How unfortunate.” Giacomo gave a silky smile. “But how wise. However, in that case I am prepared to be generous. I will give you four weeks’ notice from today, and if you have not vacated my palazzo by that date I shall inform the authorities who might be very interested to know of your existence.

  “The war is not over yet you know Contessa, and I am not at all sure that the Allies, who are still being held down at Cassino, will ultimately be victorious.”

  Guido and Francesca Valenti had been friends of Connie for over thirty years. Guido, a lawyer, had administered the estate of Connie’s guardian Miss Fairchild of which Connie was the sole heir. Francesca, a blonde, worldly, sophisticated woman of great presence, vivacity and charm, had helped to transform the then rather nervous, intensely shy young woman from a duckling into a swan. She had given her poise, confidence, a taste for fashion, helped her to make the best of her appearance, and introduced her into the élite cultural society of Venice.

  During the years that Connie was married to Carson Woodville they had inevitably lost touch, but the friendship remained and had resumed, in fact had become even stronger, when Connie returned and settled in Venice.

  The Valentis had a comfortable apartment off the Riva Degli Schiavoni, Venice’s waterfront. It was full of old books and artistic treasures. They were opera buffs and had frequently taken Connie to La Fenice. During the war they continued to meet but less often. Connie had never dared ask, but she had an idea that, despite his age – he was over sixty – Guido was somehow connected with the Italian partisans who had opposed Mussolini. The Valentis had always had very left-wing views which had put them in conflict with Paolo.