Harry sat under an umbrella outside the Ristorante Umberto and watched the world go by. The centre of the Piazza Navona teemed with tourists, street traders, artists and performers, encircled by anarchy on wheels: an endless stream of angry cars and weaving scooters hooting and tooting impatiently as they tried to circumnavigate the square, getting nowhere fast.
He took another sip of his Chianti Ruffino and loosened his tie, basking in the warmth of a sunny autumnal afternoon in one of the world’s greatest cities. The linguine alle vongole had been superb and had dispelled any residual craving he’d had for fish and chips. This was the place to be for food and wine and pretty much everything else, he’d decided.
He was struck by how much had changed in the short time since the war, how quickly life had got back to normal after one of the darkest periods in world history, as if it had never happened. Rome had been liberated a mere eighteen years ago and had escaped much of the destruction heaped upon other capitals. With most of its exquisite architecture still intact, there was little evidence to suggest it had ever been involved. Furthermore, German, British, French and American rubbed shoulders with Italian, enjoyed the peace and took pictures of each other by the Fiumi fountain, preserving fond memories that would stay with them forever. Eighteen years.
He hadn’t been here before. He hadn’t been back to Italy at all since 1944 – since that day. After two weeks in a military hospital, he’d been shipped back home to a desk job to live out the rest of the war from a distance. It hadn’t taken long. The Allies had landed in northern France that June, blazing relentlessly south-east while the Russians came from the east, charging west. The army of which he’d been part had eventually broken through Montellano from the south, racing to Rome and beyond, destination Berlin. The Russians had beaten them to it, but by May of the following year, the Third Reich would finally implode.
He resigned his commission in late 1945 and joined the post office, hoping to find stability and peace in civilian life but he was never happy. It was as if he had work left undone, hadn’t completed the job. The war had finished prematurely, without consulting him, without allowing him to participate in the dénouement, without him properly seeing the fruits of his labours. But when he looked around here now, he could see in the faces of the people the results of their sacrifices – sacrifices made by him and men like him, many of them gone but hopefully not forgotten.
The people here lived life to the full, brimming with optimism and joy. Much more so than in Berlin, which remained a smouldering cauldron of tension, a ticking time bomb for which no one admitted responsibility or took ownership; no one knew how it had got there and no one knew how to defuse it. In Rome, the war was over; in Berlin, the ashes were still warm and ready to reignite.
He’d read the news reports about the Russian blockade of West Berlin in 1948 and he thought of re-enlisting, but his injuries had never fully healed and it was made clear to him that his days of active service were over. Undeterred, he applied to the Ministry of Defence and in 1952 secured an administrative job in Whitehall. Within five years, he was in Berlin, working for an administrative offshoot of MI6.
And now, he was a civilian again and this time he wasn’t looking for a change of career. He was looking for something else. If he were religious he would call it absolution, and without it, there was no future, at least none he could see. Yet there was no one to exonerate him because no one knew and no one could possibly know. He had to find it for himself. He was going back to where it all started.
***
The train from Rome to Montellano took almost four hours, snaking its way through the Liri Valley in the shadow of the vast Apennine mountain range that formed the 750-mile backbone of the Italian peninsula. The landscape bore no resemblance to that he remembered, but then he had never travelled north of Montellano and didn’t know what to expect. But by the late afternoon the extraordinary sight of the abbey perched on a hilltop above the town hove into view and the train pulled into the ancient town.
Back in ‘44, he’d experienced no more than a glimpse of the old town and that from a ridge to the north-east, but it had been completely destroyed by the Allied bombing and now revealed itself to be a modern but drab town with street upon street of homogenous, uniformly constructed four-storey apartment blocks.
A handful of cabs waited outside the stazione but the afternoon sun was warm and he preferred to walk into town to find a hotel. He removed the jacket of his cream linen suit and tossed it over a shoulder, adjusted his panama and set off along the Viale Dante, clutching his rigid leather suitcase. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but it soon became clear that nothing of any historical interest remained and he felt an irrational sense of guilt that he’d been indirectly associated with the wholesale destruction of a medieval town that had stood for a thousand years.
He checked into the Hotel Abruzzi and was welcomed warmly by the owner, Fabrizio, and his wife, Carla.
“Signore is English?” he said with a beaming smile. “Benvenuti a Montellano. How long is your stay?”
It was a matter he hadn’t given much thought. It rather depended on what he found, if anything. He had no firm plans other than to take each day as it came.
“Two, maybe three days.”
“Prego. We can recommend a restaurant for you. It is owned by my brother Angelo.”
“Of course,” said Harry. “Thank you.”
“Prego. Perhaps you wish to visit the abbey? My brother Giuseppe can take you.”
“I’ll let you know. Is there anywhere I can hire a car?”
“Certamente. My cousin Silvio will bring. When would you like?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“I will arrange.”
“May I make a telephone call to England?”
“But of course, signore.”
He spoke to Arthur Rowland, told him where he was and that he would be staying for a couple of days.
“Well, have an enjoyable holiday, young man,’ he said. “I’ll let you know the minute I have some news.”
***
The room was modest and simply furnished, but clean and boasted a private bathroom. That evening at the Ristorante Chimera, he ate spaghetti carbonara with a carafe of the local red wine and was generally fawned over by its corpulent host, Angelo.
“I was a partisan,” said Angelo proudly. “It was big mistake joining with the Nazis, but Mussolini was a fool. He pick the wrong side, eh?” He laughed and slapped Harry on the back. There were obviously no hard feelings that the Allies had bombed his town to hell in order to beat the Germans. “I was very happy to kill Nazis.” He grinned, but then turned serious. “We have some Germans who come here.” He shook his head. “I try to see if I recognise them. There are some things we will not forget.”
“Do you know of a village called Santa Cristina De Lago?”
Angelo thought for a moment then nodded. “Sì. I think it is about twenty kilometres from here.”
“I wondered if it had been destroyed.”
“No, is not destroyed. You wish to go there?”
“I was there during the war. Do people still live there?”
“Sì. I think so. You know some people there?”
“I doubt they would remember.” Harry thought twice about continuing but he told himself he had to face up to reality. After all, that was why he had come. “There was a massacre. The SS murdered all the men.”
Angelo nodded sombrely and made the sign of the cross. “I think this happened a lot. Many, many people were killed. It is not unusual.”
Harry was taken aback by his composure. He hadn’t wanted to provoke Angelo into a rant about the Nazis, but he was surprised he seemed so matter of fact, almost sanguine about it. He couldn’t imagine such an unspeakable horror like that ever happening in England but perhaps it was different here. What had happened in Santa Cristina De Lago had probably happened elsewhere. The Italians had capitulated as soon as Sicily had fallen. Their army had crumbled and they preferred to surrender to the Allied forces than stick with the Germans, who naturally took reprisals.
“I know who did it,” he said absently and his mind suddenly filled with a heady cocktail of thoughts and memories and fears.
“Then you should kill him. Or you tell me and I shall kill him.”
Harry smiled inwardly. It sounded naïve, but it was not just a show of bravado on Angelo’s part. If Engel or Kessler strolled in here for dinner and they were recognised, they’d never be seen again. Summary justice; perhaps that was the only way? He’d said enough. He didn’t want to prolong the conversation.
“I don’t know where they are.”
“There are many of these people out there,” said Angelo, waving a hand at the window, “all over the world. They run and hide, but God will find them and punish them.” Harry wished he could share Angelo’s optimism, but unlike the Italian, he had no God.
Angelo turned away but he was back within seconds carrying two shot glasses and an unlabelled bottle of clear liquid. The restaurant had been busy earlier but apart from Harry, only two couples remained.
“My best grappa,” he announced with pride, pouring a shot into each glass and sitting down facing Harry. “Salute.”
“Salute.” They knocked back the fiery liquid and Angelo immediately refilled the glasses.
“Why do you come here, Signore Harry?” It was a good question and he didn’t really have an answer. “You do not look like a tourist to me. There is nothing to see here but the abbey.”
He took a breath; he had never mentioned the place or the name in eighteen years, but the grappa had had an instant effect. “Do you know a village called Solano?”
Angelo’s nose twitched as he thought. “No. I do not think I know such a place.”
“What about a man by the name of Girardi? Alfredo Girardi?” He watched Angelo’s face for a flicker of recognition but there was none. He shook his head and shrugged.
“No. I have heard the name, but it is common in Italy. There are many Girardi. Are you looking for this man?”
“No. I am afraid to say he’s dead.” Harry knocked back the grappa and Angelo refilled his glass without touching his own. “I did something terrible.” The spirit was taking over and he fought its effects, but he was losing the battle, wrestling to conceal a conscience that refused to stay hidden.
“Terrible good, or terrible bad?”
“Both.” He looked Angelo in the eyes, a priest to his confession.
“And you think that if you come here, Alfredo Girardi will forgive you?”
“He can’t do that.”
“Then who can forgive you, Signore Harry?”