The Road Beyond Ruin

by Gemma Liviero

  “Then when they come looking for you,” said Stefano to Teresa, “you must say I’m a traitor and you have turned your back on me. That you no longer want anything to do with me. That you have no idea where I have gone . . . Do that for me and take care of yourself. It is dangerous here, Teresa. Even for you.”

  He had always had a fondness for Teresa despite their differences. They had grown up together, and they shared a past. But their futures lay in very different directions. In the past week, Teresa and Nina had grown closer, perhaps with the knowledge that they would soon be apart. Teresa had also grown fond of her baby nephew.

  “Little brother, I can take care of myself,” she said. “It is you I am worried about. If they capture you, they will kill you. And I hate you for that.”

  “You can never hate me,” he said with a grin.

  “No, you’re right. I can never hate you, but there are times I come close.”

  Then she did something he was not expecting. His sister, usually so strong, burst into tears and wept into his chest. “I am so worried about you.”

  “I will take care of myself.”

  “I thought Mamma and Nina crazy for this decision, but I agree it is necessary now. While I believe that Mussolini must once again rule Italy, the Germans have methods that put fear into me.”

  It should have been the last time he was to see Teresa, as she and her mother and sister made their tearful goodbyes to one another.

  Back at Conti’s place, Toni and the rest of the group were studying maps and discussing something heatedly. Nina stayed behind to help her mother pack, to then bring her back to Conti’s, where they would secretly remain until their departure.

  “Stefano,” said Alberto, who appeared to have no fear of danger, “the resistance needs our help already. We are to make a diversion because they plan to assassinate Pavolini, the leader of the Black Brigades. They have sent us a list of locations that he is visiting, including a dinner being held in his honor tomorrow night. He and his Nazi accomplices have had many of the resistance members shot, their families also. It is a chance to begin.”

  “Yes,” said Conti. “We must do that.”

  “I don’t know,” said Toni, who was not normally so cautious. He was trying unsuccessfully to rock his son to sleep. “I want my wife and baby gone before we do this.”

  “It is an opportunity,” said Alberto, disagreeing. “There is nothing linking you at the moment. There is nothing to lead back to us.”

  Stefano had agreed it was a good opportunity, yet he also felt that it was too early to begin their activities. He also wanted his family gone before they commenced operations.

  They argued back and forth for the next hour before finally agreeing on a plan. Conti, Alberto, Toni, and Stefano would all go, along with other contacts they had made more recently. They kept a supply of stolen arms and ammunition in the cellar at Conti’s house. One of Conti’s friends, a member of the resistance also, owned and operated a small van that they would use for their operations, but the same vehicle and driver were needed to smuggle Julietta, Nina, and Nicolo to a church north of Rome. From there they would be taken farther south. Toni’s mother and some members of Alberto’s family had already been smuggled in previous days, as there was not enough room for all to leave at the same time.

  It was decided that late in the afternoon, the driver would drop Il Furioso off at a forest on the opposite side of the ambush location, along with the materials they needed to complete their mission. The driver would remain hidden in the forest at the drop-off point and wait there until the completion of the mission to drive the group back.

  The group’s plan was to lay explosives on the roads to blow up part of the road that Pavolini was traveling and thus divert him into an ambush where other members of the resistance would be waiting. They planned it, drew up maps, and it was four o’clock in the morning before they worked it all out. This operation would delay the travel of Stefano’s family by several days, since the driver was committed elsewhere in the days following. The timing change had bothered Stefano, but he was too exhausted to think any harder about it. He collapsed on the sofa and woke in the afternoon to Nina telling him that Conti was waiting.

  It was a plan that in discussions sounded effective and seemed to consider all possible outcomes. But the mission failed. Not all the explosives worked, blowing up only part of the road. And Pavolini never visited those sites; only several German officials traveled to them, one sustaining a major injury, and the others raising a hunting party immediately to track down the partisans involved.

  Il Furioso accepted the failure and safely returned. And by the time the night was ended, the members had covered all loose ends but one.

  Present-day 1945

  Stefano helps Georg up the stairs to his bed. The man is trembling, erratic, feverish, and feebleminded. Stefano has heard of these cases, but he has never seen the aftereffects of the drug to such a degree.

  “His drugs are gone!” Rosalind says, flustered as she looks through the medicine bag she has brought with her to the room.

  Stefano remembers the empty syringe beside Georg in the hut as Rosalind rushes downstairs, and he listens to her opening drawers and closing them again loudly. In the distance is the sound of trucks.

  Georg is becoming more anxious; he scratches at his arms and shivers despite the warm air.

  “Can you give him something else to sleep for now?” Stefano asks as she returns.

  “I can try. But there are only tablets left. In this state, he won’t swallow these or even drink water. He will fight it. It is a process.”

  “I will go and fetch Erich in the meantime,” he says, “for more of the drug he needs. Do you know where he works?”

  “You won’t find him at any employment. He lives in the town, not here at the river as he tells you. His address is on the back of Monique’s photo on the wall. But you must hurry.”

  He starts to ask more questions, but the noise of vehicles close by halts any further conversation. Rosalind rushes to the window.

  “The Russians are back,” she says urgently. “There are more of them this time, and they have guns.”

  Stefano walks to the window. He does not turn to look at Rosalind. He cannot face either of them right now.

  “Stay here!” he commands.

  21 June 1943

  Dear Papa,

  It has been too long. I have so little to tell you, and without any good news, I have not had the heart to write. I am miserable because of something that happened recently. I cannot share the details, Papa, because it is too painful to write them down.

  After our last trip to the river houses, things are very different. Georg is someplace unreachable, in the bowels of some horrid battle. Rosalind refuses to answer my many letters. And Erich is very unkind. I have to admit I never liked him much, and more recently I despise him. And I have to say that I even fear him a little. I am trying to sound strong, but I am not, Papa. Sometimes I tremble when I hear him put the key in the door. He is not the same boy I met before the war. He is like an animal trained to perform a task without conscience.

  The last time he came home from work, he was angry, and made me feel as if I were the cause of all his unhappiness. I feel so useless here, Papa. He takes me less often to his functions and goes alone these days. Not that I want his company, but it is something at least to pass the time.

  Papa, this is not the marriage I dreamed about as a little girl. I pray for the day to come when we can go our separate ways. But for now, I must endure.

  This city will have only bad memories. Always when I go out, I look for you in the streets, in the square, at the markets, hoping that you have been released, that you have begun some kind of life. I look for you everywhere.

  I wish I had someone to talk to me, but it seems everyone I have ever loved has gone from my life.

  Love from Monique

  CHAPTER 24

  ROSALIND

  Stefano hurries across
to the stairs and disappears down to the next level while the urgent roar of engines sounds on the track toward them. Rosalind steps closer to the attic window. They are not the same as those used for previous Russian visits, but a military truck and a passenger vehicle.

  The truck brakes noisily and suddenly in front of the house. Moments later Stefano exits the front door and walks to face the two soldiers who have jumped out from the back of the larger vehicle, with guns drawn. Rosalind watches nervously, her heart thumping hard in her chest. She turns back to look at Georg, who has stopped scratching and is focused on a small photo of Monique he holds in front of him. She only briefly takes this in, because she can’t afford to miss what is unfolding outside, and her mind is clouded with indecision, whether to take Georg and run from the back door.

  Stefano looks calm as he approaches the soldiers. Another Russian, with a more senior-looking uniform—a fitted jacket with several red-and-gold badges—steps out from the car. The Uniform speaks to Stefano in Russian. They shake hands, and Stefano hands the officer a piece of paper, which she presumes shows his identity. But she is still trying to process the handshake, still trying to absorb this act of familiarity. Behind her Georg is whimpering like a child. She doesn’t turn to look at him. She can already see in her mind that the tears have something to do with the photo. She has urged him many times to articulate his feelings, but for reasons also she is relieved he doesn’t. She does not want to be reminded that he and Monique shared something special, something she was excluded from.

  Her thoughts are scattered with Georg unsettled, but he isn’t what features most this time. The immediate danger lies just outside her house with the Russians. The ones she faced in Berlin were different from these, but the detached glares toward her house are just as frightening. She wonders if they are here on behalf of Erich, if he has somehow double-crossed Georg, and if the untold truth of his drug-fueled rage against the Russians prior to his wounding has surfaced. But the thought comes and goes in less than seconds. It would do no good for Erich to talk. If they take Georg, they will likely take her, too. And Erich needs her silence as much as she needs his. They both have secrets now, and the best they can do is to despise each other silently.

  The sudden distraction of another Russian voice confuses her while she processes its familiarity. She tilts her head slightly toward the glass to view the speaker, Stefano, but his back is to the window. He talks in a hushed tone, and the soldiers listen intently. Those from the truck wear helmets as if they are expecting a confrontation. One of them takes out a notepad and writes something down. Stefano is pointing to the track that leads to town.

  There is commotion behind her, and the floorboards jiggle. She turns to see Georg’s final stride to reach the top of the stairs.

  “Georg! No!” she hisses loudly. But he is going down the stairs two at a time.

  He is across the floor downstairs, and she turns back to the window to watch him rush out the front door below. One of the soldiers shouts a warning, and Stefano turns and pushes his palm forward to halt him, but Georg disregards the signal and rushes at the Soviet officer.

  “Nyet!” Stefano shouts to the two soldiers who have already drawn their guns. One of the soldiers fires his weapon, and the bullet strikes Georg’s side, causing him to fall. By the time Rosalind reaches the front door, the Russian weapons are aimed at her. They are halted by another signal from Stefano.

  Rosalind ignores them all, uncaring of their guns, and races to kneel by Georg’s side. At the sight of him, pale and breathless, she is panicked. With her hands she attempts to stem the bleeding, but it is useless as Georg’s blood spills out from between her fingers.

  “You have to help me,” she shouts, overwrought. “You have to help stop the bleeding!”

  Stefano appears beside her with linen from the house, then commands the soldiers to carry Georg to the back of the truck.

  “No,” says Rosalind, who does not let go of her husband, though it is to no avail as the soldiers are strong and lift him away from her.

  She shouts at them that she is a nurse, that she must attend him, but they don’t listen. They carry Georg and lay him in the back of the truck. She doesn’t know who is holding her arms, but she is restrained tightly enough that she cannot step forward toward Georg.

  Stefano says something else to the soldiers in the vehicle, then steps back as this first group of Soviets prepares to drive away.

  “No!” shouts Rosalind, her arms released. “They can’t take him!” She storms toward the truck.

  Stefano wraps his arms around her, and she struggles unsuccessfully to free herself. She continues to shout and call for Georg, and Stefano yells above her that Georg is going to a military hospital and they will do everything to save him.

  “It was a mistake, Rosalind,” he says. “They thought he was dangerous.”

  Only when the truck has disappeared does Stefano release her to move away and whisper hurriedly in the ear of the officer who returns then to the second vehicle, which then departs also.

  Rosalind is breathing heavily and tears are falling and she is thinking of Georg, bleeding in the hands of the enemy. She will never stop loving him, and she is sorry for nearly giving up. Rosalind doesn’t realize she has said her thoughts aloud.

  “There is no enemy,” says Stefano.

  But there is. There is always an enemy. She knows that even more now. There is always someone to hurt her. She is always being punished.

  April 1945

  Chests rose and fell with the uneven, rasping breaths of soldiers back from the Eastern Front, the German line rapidly disintegrating. The wounded were coming in too many, too fast. Doctors yelled commands above anguished howls. There were so many to suture, so many legs and arms to amputate. Temperatures were checked, wounds packed, and patients cleared hastily from operating tables. Nurses rushed from patient to patient, blood smeared across their aprons, calling the nursing volunteers to bring more supplies and remove surgical dishes stocked with shrapnel and fragments of bones.

  At dawn, after a fourteen-hour shift, Rosalind was ordered to check on the new arrivals. She had passed the point of tiredness hours earlier to reach the stage of frayed, ignoring blisters on her feet that burst hours ago. Seconds later a siren sounded to alert hospital staff to commence evacuating patients to the lower ground floor, and the sounds of shelling nearby filled everyone with a grim reality. In those moments that she descended the hospital’s marble staircase for the last time, Rosalind recognized that nursing was something expected of her, a choice driven by her sense of duty, by her desire to impress and to stand out finally, rather than something she chose from the heart. And she admitted to herself that she did not do it as well as other nurses. They may not have been as meticulous at organizing the surgical tools, but their ability to care was something that came naturally to them. They knew what to say to those who were dying. They felt more than she did perhaps. She couldn’t say for certain, but she was flawed in some way. She recognized it then.

  Rosalind entered the basement level and walked toward its only ward, the “arrivals crypt,” some called it privately, with a mass of bodies, some with fewer parts than when they left the field. People rushed past her along the hallway. With the evacuation in process, there was much commotion on the floor above her, as trolleys squeaked frantically across the tiles. Those from the basement, those with less chance of survival, would be the last to be moved. The ward’s street-level windows were still blacked out with heavy curtains from the night before, and under dim basement lighting that spread sparsely across the room, Rosalind scanned the bodies draped untidily on the dozen beds with soiled linen they had not had time to replace after earlier casualties. Some of the injured had been left on trolleys near the doorway, their flesh torn open, burned and flayed, harvested from battle. The first one she attended was dead. He looked too young for war, plump youthful cheeks and acne strewn along his jawline. A large red-brown stain on the center of his uniform shirt
disguised the fatal wound. She moved to the next one. She was picturing Georg at these moments, though she was not afraid to see him. Not anymore. She was told that he was still fighting far away, fighting a losing campaign with no shred of hope.

  The injured that had been arriving since the beginning of the year were some of the most gruesome she had seen. And it wasn’t just their individual wounds that suggested that battles had grown more savage and desperate, but the sheer number that spilled through the hospital’s hallways. Though half in this ward were different from past arrivals, picked up from the streets, boys, barely men some of them. Part of the skull was missing from one patient, and his arm was mangled, as if it had been ground with a pestle. There was so much blood and crushed bone she couldn’t tell how many fingers he had left. He was one of the few who didn’t cry out, hoping for death, far beyond the reaches of pain. His breathing was steady and his chest undamaged. The next one was missing both his legs, the tops of which had been bound tightly with uniform shirts, most likely by comrades, the medics likely dead. The patient stared at her, pleadingly, through blood-colored eyes.

  You make a good cup of tea, but it’s not the same as having a healing hand, her mother had said when she was growing bitter with the reduction of food and her husband’s lack of employment. And Rosalind wondered then, whether the words were profound, as she approached each patient, whether she had tried to prove something to her mother, to prove her wrong.

  Rosalind examined the wounds of the last patient—an old man in civilian clothing—then stood in the center of the room to review the carnage. Everywhere she turned, someone was calling her, and the wailing only exacerbated her unraveling, as well as the shelling that every so often shook the building. She could not do this alone. She went to the medicine cabinet for small tubes of morphine to be administered to several of them, into those most demanding. Each time, the crying and pleading would stop, and the eyes that were roaming in pain were then fixed on the ceiling or off to the side to the spaces beside them. It was simple, so easy to end their suffering.