They drove ten kilometres to the small town of Folluccio, where Lucia said there was a restaurant with a terrace overlooking the mountains: somewhere they could talk. He hoped they could clear their minds of the trauma of yet another day but also share their memories of 1944 and the way the events of that spring had shaped both their lives.
In the vestry, Harry had pestered her with questions while she swabbed his face and applied a sticking plaster, but she’d told him to shut up and wait. She didn’t need to discuss her entire life in the presence of Father Benelli, in or out of the confessional and, to his credit, the priest had not sought to complicate matters with talk, wishing them both well as they left. Harry had thanked him for calling the police, but Benelli had maintained it was God who’d intervened to prevent sacrilege in his house and Harry had not been minded to argue the point.
“I need a drink,” he said to her as they sat in the shade on the veranda. “Are you okay?”
She was rubbing her hands nervously, constantly looking around, distracted by the movement of people. “I keep expecting him to turn up and start all over again. It’s eighteen years since I saw him – since I saw you. I never imagined I would ever see either of you again.”
“I’m sorry—” he started to say but she interrupted, reaching out her hand.
“No. Do not be sorry. If you had not come, I would still be with that animal Luigi. I will always be grateful to you for saving me. And for what you did.” Her eyes moistened again and it pierced his heart. He had fallen in love with her completely but he didn’t have the courage to say so and even if he did, the analyst in him would overrule such an admission. His common sense told him the situation was unique, their emotions were running high and their judgement impaired. This was not the time to ruin everything by blurting out his feelings for her especially when he doubted very much she would feel the same.
“I will always be there for you, Lucia,” he said, squeezing her hand. It was the most tentative of toes in the water, but before he got any sense of the water temperature a waiter appeared and handed them some menus. “Wine?” She nodded.
***
Isabella Girardi was in the scullery, up to her elbows in hot soapy water, scrubbing the sweat and filth from Alfredo’s shirt on a washboard. She looked out of the window to the rear of the farmhouse and saw her father hoeing the ground in preparation for planting the potatoes and the cannellini beans. The Germans had driven their tanks over the vines to flatten them, fearing they might provide cover for enemy forces in the event of attack, which, if the rumours were to be believed, would start by the end of the year. She didn’t fully understand why everyone was fighting, but she knew from what her father had said the sooner that imbecile Il Duce was overthrown and his filthy German masters sent back to where they came from, the better all their lives would be. In the meantime, he could only grow food to eat and there wasn’t much of that; for months they’d been living mainly on cabbage and the eggs from the few chickens they had left.
It had been only six weeks since one of the bastardi had tried to steal their goats and when her mother, Maria, had remonstrated with them, wielding a frying pan, he had shot her dead. Her little sister Lucia hadn’t stopped crying and although Isabella wanted to die herself, she’d found a purpose in the role of matriarch. Her father had been very brave and she had to be brave too. Lucia had been out in the yard feeding the chickens but suddenly appeared, distressed.
“Papà! Papà!”
Isabella ran outside, wiping her hands on a towel. Alfredo had dropped the hoe and was hobbling back towards the house. Six soldiers were in the chicken run, trying to catch four panicked birds that flapped and fluttered and squawked but were soon rounded up, swiftly despatched by a twist of the neck and thrown into a sack. Alfredo put his arm around Lucia, who clung to him tightly, and Isabella watched with consternation as the soldiers approached the back door.
“Inside!” one of them said, pointing his rifle and pushing them indoors. The soldiers poked around the front room, opening cupboards and kicking over a steaming pot of water sitting on a trivet by the fireplace. They laughed and guffawed in a language none of the family could understand, and then two of them glanced at Isabella and one made a lurid gesture. They leaned their rifles against the wall and approached Isabella and Alfredo, who was still holding the terrified Lucia. The other four sat at the table and put their feet up, lighting cigarettes and grunting in their guttural foreign tongue.
One of the two grinned and held out a hand to Isabella and when she ignored him he grabbed her and pulled her towards him. She resisted but he slapped her face and she cried out. Alfredo tried to help her but he was pushed to the floor by the other one, who then grabbed Lucia. She screamed.
“Papà!”
Isabella was dragged upstairs on her back. Lucia was lifted by the waist screaming, and carried underarm like a rolled-up carpet.
“No!” Alfredo shouted, but one of the seated soldiers cocked his rifle and pointed it at him.
They reached the landing and doors were kicked open. The girls were carried into their own bedroom and flung on the bed. The soldiers laughed with each other and grunted as they removed helmets and boots and then their belts and tunics and threw them to one side. Isabella and Lucia knelt on the bed, clinging to each other, Lucia in a state of panic. The soldiers came at them from each side and pulled the girls apart and Lucia screamed as Isabella fought back but she took another heavy slap and fell back on the bed. The soldiers unbuttoned their trousers and pushed them to the floor, exposing their engorged members, and held each girl down by the neck while they tore at their clothing. They heard a shout.
“Halt!” The men stopped suddenly, looked at each other and then at the door. “Lasst die Fräuleins sofort in Ruhe!” came the order. Leave the girls alone! “Aus!”
The soldiers hesitated then hastily pulled up their trousers, collected their things and scurried out of the room. Isabella held the traumatised and sobbing Lucia in her arms. She turned her head to look towards the door, terrified and wary, assuming it was merely a temporary respite and that the assault would resume at any moment. A tall officer in a clean crisp uniform and cap stood watching them, legs wide apart, leather gloves in one hand. He stared at Isabella and she stared back, stroking Lucia’s head as her sister trembled. Then to her astonishment, he removed his cap, bowed gently and clicked his heels.
“Fräulein,” was all he said, then replaced the cap, turned and left them alone. Isabella was afraid to move, but she heard him descend the stairs and she heard him bark orders in a language she couldn’t understand and she heard the soldiers trudge out of the house and pull the door shut and she heard shouting outside the farmhouse and then she heard two shots and she gasped out loud.
***
“Kessler?” said Harry, shaken and horrified by the story but now incredulous.
Lucia nodded. “Yes.”
“But… it doesn’t seem possible. The guy was a maniac then and he’s a maniac now. The idea that he possessed the tiniest speck of honour or humanity is just unbelievable.”
“I know. But it is all relative, is it not?”
“Relative to what?”
“The circumstances. The times in which we lived. You do not know the background.”
Harry had to agree. He’d jumped in without knowing the facts or the context. Kessler had been born an innocent baby and somewhere along the way, life turned him into a monster.
“So, then what?”
“We tried to get back to normal but we feared the same thing could happen again. Papà said he would protect us but he had no gun and even if he had it would have been no use against armed soldiers. Isabella tried to tell me I wouldn’t die if I just let them do what they wanted. It would be horrible and painful at first, but it would pass, she said. We had no choice if we wanted to live.”
Harry felt a wave of anger and nausea, but stifled his emotions. She was here now with him, so whatever horrors she’d experienced, they were in the past and she was safe. He felt compelled to ask even though he dreaded the response.
“Did… they come back or was that an isolated incident?”
The waiter placed two plates of pasta in front of them, although Harry had lost his appetite and Lucia looked disinterested. She picked up her fork and stabbed at her plate.
“The next day, he came back.”
“Kessler?”
“He came in a black open-topped car with a driver and two guards who stood outside by the door. He carried a bunch of flowers and he took off his hat and clicked his heels and bowed, like they do, and handed the flowers to Isabella. He spoke in Italian and apologised for the behaviour of those animals and that they would not be doing that again to anyone. And, he said, he had given orders the house was off-limits and he would be checking every day to make sure we were all right.” Harry shook his head to dispel the image. Kessler the gentleman? “He came again the next day and brought more flowers for Isabella and some tins of food and fresh vegetables. My father asked him about our chickens and the next day, he came back with a truck and some men who repaired the run, put some new wire around it and restocked it with a dozen chickens.
“We could not believe our luck, although of course we did not trust any of them and we waited anxiously for another group of them to attack us. But it didn’t happen. The food kept coming and Kessler kept coming and one day he even brought some chocolate ‘for little Lucia’ and I think I even thanked him.
“Then after a few days, he took my father to one side and they had a discussion. He wanted to talk alone with Isabella. He would do her no harm, he was just lonely and he wanted someone to talk to, someone to whom he could unburden his darkest thoughts. Papà said it was the least we could do. Kessler took Isabella upstairs and after an hour he came back down, bowed and clicked his heels and left. We watched her come down the stairs and Papà asked her if she was okay. Yes, I am okay, Papà. We just talked. He is a very sad and lonely person.
“He came every two or three days and every time with food, some we gave away to passing neighbours, and every time he went upstairs with Isabella until one day, he was up there for two hours. This time he looked a little more officious, embarrassed even, and Isabella came down blushing and we knew. She told Papà and he was angry but she explained she was fine and he should be realistic. He had no choice and neither did she. She could give Kessler what he wanted and they got safety, security and food in return, but if she refused him, then anything might happen. The German was gentle and kind and he would make sure we were safe.”
Harry chewed on some pasta and tried to imagine the position they were in. “Prostituta!” had declared Rosa the cleaner. Whether or not Rosa had benefited from food handouts, he couldn’t say. Either way it was an unforgiveable slur.
“We heard in the July that Sicily had been invaded by the Americans and the British and we believed it was only a matter of time before they crossed to the mainland. Kessler came less often, about once a week, but he was busy and did not stay long. Just long enough. And then, one morning in August Isabella was sick and Papà knew why and she knew why, although I didn’t.”
“She was pregnant.”
“Yes. She told me a few days later and not to worry because being sick in the morning is normal and it would go away, but I was not to say anything to Ernst.”
“Ernst? You were on first-name terms?”
“He insisted. And when a German insists, you must obey.” She imparted a modest grin and seemed increasingly relaxed in the telling, perhaps relieved to be offloading the memories, just as he had been. Isabella had grown massively in his estimation and he was saddened he’d never got to know her properly, but it was clear the Girardi women were cut from the same cloth. Most of all, he was relieved Lucia had not suffered further violation.
“So when did he find out?”
“She let him continue but then she worried having sex might harm the baby, so she told him. It would have become obvious anyway.”
“So she wanted to keep it?”
“It would be against God to do otherwise.” There was no reproach in her answer, but he felt awkward and ignorant. She’d been brought up in the Catholic faith, there was no other, so abortion had never been considered, regardless of the circumstances. “She could not help liking him. He treated her well and he treated us well too. He protected us.” I can’t believe this is the same man. “When he found out, he was even more attentive and came as often as he could, even if he had to drive himself and come without guards. Once he even brought a doctor to examine her.”
“Good Lord,” said Harry, “he sounds almost human.”
“He loved her,” she said.
It all made sense, even if he couldn’t equate the chivalrous, caring father-to-be with the vile, cold-hearted assassin he knew as Ernst Kessler. It made sense of Kessler’s behaviour when he’d returned to the farmhouse in the middle of an artillery bombardment and, desperate to protect his love and her unborn child, he finds an enemy soldier he thinks has already butchered one and is about to do the same to another. Nothing could excuse his criminal conduct at Santa Cristina or Berlin and probably countless other places, nor his membership of the SS, but his vendetta against Harry Male was totally understandable. Harry Male would have done the same.
“It became more and more difficult for him to visit. By January the British and Americans were getting closer, so the shelling got more and more heavy and we didn’t know whether we would even survive the winter. Then in February, the Abbey of Montellano was destroyed and we thought that was the end and we would never see the Germans again. But they kept fighting and the shells kept falling all around us. It was very frightening.”
Harry remembered it well. Every time they gained some ground, the Germans were easily able to counterattack because the Allies were always fighting their way uphill. The Germans had the benefit of their elevated defensive positions and in addition, the more the Allied bombing laid waste to the towns and the landscape, the more cover it provided the Germans to repel attack. Despite the Allies’ overwhelming superiority in forces and firepower, the Nazis had held out for months. It had been one almighty mess from start to finish. And in all that time, families like the Girardis were caught in the middle, merely trying to stay alive.
The waiter cleared their plates and brought them coffee. Lucia looked out across the country and up to the mountains and let out a deep sigh. She looked vulnerable, yet composed, sad but not tearful. The war had done terrible things to her and her family and millions of others. He wished he could say that from now on, everything would be all right and she would never have to worry again. He hoped at least she would now find some peace and stability and he hoped she’d allow him to provide it.
“By March, Isabella was beginning to have serious pains but there was no doctor we could call. We had not seen Ernst for two weeks and we wondered whether he had been killed. You must realise, although we knew how horrible and violent the Nazis were to many people, he had only ever been good to us, so we were concerned for him and worried about Isabella.”
Harry had a fair idea where Ernst Kessler had been in early March 1944. He was being driven out of Santa Cristina De Lago by Harry and his brigade along with a bunch of New Zealanders. He shivered when he thought about it. They may have shot at each other without ever realising how their lives would ultimately interconnect. He understood why Lucia’s memory of the German should be so benign. Kessler may well have loved Isabella, or have had some obsession with her, even if it had not been requited. They’d used him as a shield to keep themselves safe and the arrangement had worked well, for a time. It irked Harry to think Lucia may have some sympathy for him, but as far as she knew, Kessler had done them no harm and committed no crime other than to fight for his country. Harry had evidence to the contrary but Lucia had so far heard only fragments of it and had probably not yet taken it all in. It would have been too much to comprehend for someone whose first and only impression of Kessler was of someone who’d helped them, been kind to them. She might struggle to accept Kessler was a monster just as he that Kessler had been a saint. It was a dilemma, but he would neither say nor do anything to contradict her; the risk of alienating her was one he wasn’t prepared to take.
“Isabella could not climb the stairs, so Papà brought the bed down into the front room.” … Set against the far wall between the chimney breast and a second doorway was an iron bedstead… “And Isabella lay there for a few days before the pain became unbearable and we were frantic with worry. So he went out to get help and found you.”
Harry nodded wistfully. “It was the fourteenth of March. The day the Americans bombed Montellano. My platoon had retreated from Santa Cristina the day before and we were told to get well away from the town because it was going to be levelled. That’s when we met your father. He pleaded with us to help him and I admit I was a bit irritated and sceptical, but I couldn’t refuse.”
She was smiling at him in an admiring way, her chin propped up on one elbow.
“What?”
“Nothing. I was just trying to remember you. You must have been twenty-six, maybe?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Ah, twenty-four. It must have been the stubble and the filthy hair and uniform. Made you look older.” She was playing with him and he loved it.
“And you kept out of sight.”
“If I had been there, you would not have done what you did.” It was no accusation, just a statement of fact. She was right, of course. He would have picked her up and run, at least as far as his fractured leg would allow. Saving a fourteen-year-old would have been a wonderful excuse for running away from the hideous predicament he was in. We didn’t have the luxury of retreat! His father’s voice echoed in his mind. No, Dad, and when it came down to it, I didn’t retreat from this one either.
“I still can’t understand how Kessler survived. There must have been a ton of rubble on top of him and he must have still been there when they found me. Either they missed him completely or thought he was dead.”
“But if I had been there, I would have been able to explain to him what you had done and maybe he would not have shot you.”
“And you might have been buried under the rubble too.”
It didn’t bear thinking about. Whatever had happened was in the past. The most important thing was that they were together now. He decided the time was right to slay the myth of the German’s sainthood.
“Lucia, the day before, Kessler and his Nazi troops machine-gunned a hundred and forty-three innocent men and boys, in Santa Cristina. I have seen the film. I saw him stroll along a pile of bodies and finish off ten or twelve who were still alive. He shot them in the head.” She dropped her eyes.
“It shows sometimes you do not know people,” she said quietly. He was struck and disturbed by the ambiguity in her statement. They didn’t really know each other, not yet, and he didn’t know whether she was being wary, reassessing her own impressions and feelings about him. But she was right. They had each formed differing views about Kessler based on their own experiences and both would struggle to come to terms with his alter ego.
“And if Father Benelli had not been there…”
“He would have shot you dead.” Her eyes went moist again. “I know.”
“You saved me again, Lucia.”
“How?”
“You told him the truth about Isabella.”
“He didn’t believe me.”
“And you told him about the baby.”
“He didn’t believe that either.”
“But it bought time. Time enough for the police to arrive.”
“I suppose.”
Another thought suddenly struck him. Kessler had hunted him down because he believed he had murdered his wife and child and wanted retribution. From the moment Kessler had recognised him in the apartment, that had been his mission. Now he had another one. He’d discovered Catalina hadn’t died, would surely do anything to find her and had aptly demonstrated how determined and resourceful he could be. He needed to see Inspector Bianchi and reiterate how dangerous Kessler was. He also needed to discuss Barone. They weren’t yet out of the woods.
“C’mon. We need to go and see the police.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you on the way.”
***
They asked directions to Montellano central police station and found it in a side street, three Fiat squad cars parked outside. Inspector Bianchi was in his office and a uniformed officer showed them in.
“Prego, Signore Male e Signora Barone.”
“Girardi,” said Lucia, correcting him.
“Sì, sì, certamente. Please have a seat.” Bianchi was clearly not expecting visitors. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his tie loosened and a cigarette smouldered in the ashtray.
“Inspector,” said Harry. “I wanted to discuss two things with you?”
“But of course.”
“The man you arrested today…”
“Herr Kessler.”
“I wanted you to be clear how dangerous and resourceful he is.”
Bianchi sat back in his chair. “I know this, signore. I have spoken to the Berlin police. He fits the description of the man they are looking for” – he consulted his notes – “the murder of three officers of the West Berlin police, an elderly lady by the name of Leitner, an East German called Bergmann... oh yes, and four workers at Hotel Regent in Kurfürstendamm… ”
“What?” said Harry, casting a glance at Lucia. “I didn’t know about the Regent.”
“He is known there as Karl Schneider. I know he is extremely dangerous, but thank you for your advice.”
“I just wanted to make sure he was locked up securely, for all our sakes.”
“I can assure you, signore,” said Bianchi, clearly beginning to find the conversation tiring “Kessler cannot escape from here. We will send him back to Berlin as soon as the paperwork has been completed.”
“What about the two murders in Casavento?”
Bianchi shrugged. “We shall be pleased to be rid of him.”
“And the war crime at Santa Cristina?”
Bianchi shrugged again. “Do you have evidence of this, Signore Male?”
Harry thought about it but only for a second. He knew where the evidence was but it was futile to pursue it. Even if Bianchi were an avid Nazi-hunter, he too would hit a brick wall if he tried to investigate.
“There’s one other thing, Inspector.”
“And what might that be, signore?”
“Does Barone know you found Lucia?”
Bianchi smiled with satisfaction. “It is not for the police to be involved in, shall we say, affairs of the heart,” he purred. “If I tell him we have found the signora but she does not want to return, maybe Signore Barone will come here to, er, discuss the matter.”
“That’s what I’m worried about. I booked into the hotel under the name of Harper. In case he made enquiries.”
Bianchi took a moment to choose his words. “Signore Barone has a reputation. He is not welcome in Montellano and it is possible that he may come into conflict with some other people who also do not want him here. It will be inconvenient for me if there is any trouble.”
“What other people?”
“Oh, you know, businessmen.”
“Mafiosi?”
“No, no!” said Bianchi in protest. “We do not have this kind of thing in Montellano. Maybe in Sicilia and Napoli. And New York!” He laughed, pleased with his own wit, but he noticed his guests were not amused. “No, signore, I have said nothing to Signore Barone and if he calls me, I shall say simply that you and the signora are not in Montellano.”
“Thank you,” said Harry.
“And this will be true, no? Because tomorrow you are leaving. Is that not correct, Signore Male?”
They were being told to leave Montellano. That much was clear and, in many respects, Harry was quite content to head back to Rome and get Lucia as far away from Barone, Kessler or anyone else, as soon as possible. All respects, in fact, bar one.
***
As soon as they’d gone, Commissario Bianchi lit another cigarette and slumped in his chair in exasperation. His daughter’s wedding was only four days away and he cursed the Holy Father for having the temerity to threaten his arrangements. His overwhelming priority was to ensure the celebration went through without a hitch and he was certain his prospective in-laws would agree. The last thing they all needed was an imminent invasion of his town by a rabid mafioso and his henchmen in pursuit of a runaway wife and her inglese boyfriend. He was also saddled with the complication of an ex-Nazi psychopath locked up in one of his cells together with the potential arrival of Interpol, sniffing around his patch. Maledizione!
He picked up the phone and dialled a number from memory. It was answered within seconds.
“Pronto.”
“Ciao, Signore Coppola. Fabio Bianchi.”
Mario Coppola usually had little to say, preferring to listen, but with the impending nuptials of his eldest son Francesco to Bianchi’s daughter, he was in a more affable frame of mind.
“Ciao, Commissario Bianchi. I trust the last-minute arrangements are going well?”
Bianchi felt a shiver. Mario Coppola was well practised in the dark art of imparting menace in the most innocuous of statements.
“Yes, yes. Yes. Of course, we are all looking forward to it very much.”
“So, what can I do for you?”
Bianchi cleared his throat. He very much wanted to appear helpful rather than someone in need of assistance himself.
“I have information that Luigi Barone may be planning to visit very soon.” He paused, but there was no immediate response and he felt his heart beating a little faster than usual.
“Go on.”
“His wife has run away. She and her boyfriend turned up here. I have ordered them to leave immediately, but it may not stop him coming to look for her.”
“Keep me informed, Commissario.”