The Tuscan Contessa

by Dinah Jefferies

  ‘Someone informed,’ Elsa said, taking over but still sounding deadened. ‘They found out he was one of the men behind the printing of illegal leaflets. Then he became ill and we couldn’t get the treatment he needed.’

  Sofia stared at one and then the other, then turned back to her mother, who shook her head hopelessly.

  ‘We had to get your father out of Rome,’ Maxine said. ‘I’m so sorry. He just didn’t make it and died on the way.’

  ‘Oh, mio signore! No. Not my poor father. Not him.’ Sofia swallowed hard, feeling the heat prickling her eyes and the lump developing in her throat.

  Neither Maxine nor Elsa spoke.

  ‘You … you were with him?’ she asked her mother with a sob in her voice.

  Elsa nodded.

  ‘I can’t bear it. Did he know? Did he suffer?’

  ‘He was very ill. He knew he didn’t have long. But the end was peaceful. He simply slipped away.’

  Sofia’s eyes overflowed with tears. ‘Did he know how much I loved him? I never told him, Mamma. I never said.’

  ‘Oh, my darling girl, of course he knew. You were the light of his life.’

  ‘Who is we?’ Sofia whispered after a moment. ‘Maxine said we. Was it just you and Maxine?’

  She glanced around the room, wringing her hands, as if expecting to find someone in the shadows, then turned to Maxine.

  Maxine held her gaze, blinking rapidly and struggling to hold back tears.

  ‘Did Marco help you with my father? Where is he now?’

  Maxine swallowed visibly but her voice remained steady. ‘Marco died, Sofia.’

  Sofia gasped in horror. ‘Dear God! Not Marco too. What happened?’

  ‘We got caught up in Via Rasella when a bomb exploded, and he was shot trying to get away.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m so dreadfully sorry.’ She took a step forward, but Maxine lowered her gaze and shook her head.

  There was a long, agonized pause.

  Sofia swallowed the lump in her throat. Then, after a moment, she said softly, ‘But the bomb was three weeks ago. Why didn’t you come home sooner?’

  Her mother replied. ‘We left a week after the explosion, but it took us two weeks to get here. The train was derailed. It was a terrible, frightening journey … so many roadblocks … so many Germans heading north. And the Allied planes too. Awful.’

  Sofia squeezed her eyes shut and bowed her head. There were no words for this, and she felt an overwhelming need to blame someone for her father’s death. ‘If my father was so ill, wouldn’t it have been better to stay in Rome?’

  ‘We had run out of places to stay. There was no water, virtually nothing to eat. You can’t imagine.’

  ‘You should have –’ she began, but the lump came back in her throat. She swallowed and began again. ‘You should have come here when I asked you to.’

  Maxine gazed at her sympathetically. ‘Should have doesn’t help. We all did what we thought was best at the time.’

  Sofia nodded, knowing she was right.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s more,’ her mother said hesitantly.

  A stab of fear ran through Sofia. ‘What more? Have you found Lorenzo?’

  ‘We are almost certain he was imprisoned,’ Maxine said then glanced at Elsa, who took over. ‘We believe the Nazis found out about his work for the Allies.’

  Sofia gasped and her hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘You will need to prepare yourself, Sofia,’ Maxine said. ‘We don’t know for sure but it’s possible he might have been one of the men shot in reprisal for the partisan bomb. They took over three hundred from the prisons.’

  Sofia remained standing, staring at nothing, didn’t see the room at all. She didn’t even know if anyone was speaking. Lights flashed before her eyes as ice surged through her body. Cold, searing heat, cold again, and behind all of this, a feeling of outrage exploding in her head. Then, all she could do was grab handfuls of her own hair and pull as hard as she could, as if by ripping her hair out by the root it might dull the excruciating emotional pain.

  Her mother attempted to draw her hands away, but Sofia fought her off.

  ‘It isn’t true,’ she cried. ‘It can’t be true.’

  Then she gasped for air, doubled over and groaned as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Someone helped her sit. Despite the spring weather, a long and dreadful silence chilled the room. Sofia rocked back and forth, unable to contemplate a life without her father and … she could not even bear to think it … Lorenzo. She glanced up at the painting of San Sebastiano. ‘You didn’t keep him safe,’ she whispered. Then, with a life of its own, a cry of anguish rose from somewhere so deep inside, and so dark, she hadn’t even known it existed.

  ‘Bastards!’ she screamed. ‘Bastards! Murdering bastards!’

  As pain ripped her apart, she thought of Lorenzo in prison, maybe dead, and her gentle, loving father gone. It was too much. Even if they did win this vile war, what would be left? She closed her eyes and thought of her beloved husband. In her mind she watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he slept and couldn’t believe she might never see him breathe again. She saw him gazing at her, his eyes blazing with love. How could something as powerful as that be gone? That light. That essence. He could not have been shot. He could not have been murdered. He was too good. Too honest. She refused to believe it. Would not believe it.

  ‘He may still be in prison,’ she heard her mother whisper. ‘There is a chance, my love.’

  ‘They haven’t issued a list of the dead?’ Sofia asked, clutching at the shred of hope.

  Maxine shook her head. ‘They want to hush the whole thing up.’

  Then Sofia rushed from the room and escaped to her bedroom. She knew she should be comforting her mother, and she would, but right now she needed to weep alone for the two men she had loved the most. She threw herself on to the bed and, with a pillow over her head, she howled out the pain until there was no breath left inside her.

  During the following week the sound of weeping echoed around the house, along the corridors and in and out of distant rooms. Sofia’s eyes were constantly gritty from a combination of exhaustion and tears. Elsa’s were swollen and she barely ate, grown so gaunt Sofia feared for her. Her mother slipped about the house, a shadow of her usual vibrant self, and when Sofia caught her staring into empty space, she would have given anything to make her well again. But there was nothing she could do. Her father and Lorenzo were constantly on her mind. She recalled the way her father read to her when she was young, and how she’d drift off to the sound of his beautiful voice. To be loved, no matter what, was the gift he had bequeathed her. And that was what she had found in her husband too. She lay on their bed, curling into her own arms and wishing they were Lorenzo’s. She wanted to touch his skin again, see the light in his eyes and, most of all, she longed to hold him.

  52.

  As if to taunt Sofia, spring was unbelievably beautiful. The days were longer, the gloom of winter partly gone, and sunlight brightened their world, at least some of the time. They always prepared for rain and cold at this time of year but, so far, the weather had been spectacular. Along the grassy paths between the young vines and spilling into the slopes of the olive groves, poppies raised their cheerful heads. Butterflies and bees hovered in the air. Daisies dotted the fields in yellow and white, delicate pale roses tumbled down their verges and broom and mustard carpeted the margins of the fields. While Sofia walked the dogs, she collected the wildflowers, beneath a sky so blue it felt, despite everything, that life might one day be worth living.

  She placed the flowers in little vases of hope all around the house, their scent so clean and good, it helped a little. Elsa began to eat again, not quite so lost in her own silence, while Maxine came and went. She talked but not about her grief. Sofia could see it building in her, building and building until she feared Maxine would crack. Sofia didn’t ask where she had been or what she was doing. James and some of the partisans had taken the radio
equipment away to use elsewhere and Maxine reported that a vast amount of meticulous intelligence had been transmitted to the Allies.

  There was still no list of the men shot in reprisal for the bomb in Via Rasella, but under the blue, blue sky, Sofia made the decision that unless she heard for certain Lorenzo was dead, she simply was not going to believe it.

  They heard that the partisans had been looting in some areas, which was not a good sign. On the other hand, there were now over four thousand partisans in hiding at Monte Amiata. A veritable army.

  Late one afternoon Maxine roared into the kitchen, her eyes alight, her clothing torn.

  ‘What on earth?’ Sofia said, alarmed.

  Maxine swept her arms around the room. ‘I was there. I saw it all.’

  Sofia shook her head at the outrageous state she was in. ‘What, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘You don’t know about the battle?’

  ‘No,’ Sofia said, but had already guessed Maxine’s way of dealing with grief would be to throw herself in the path of danger again.

  ‘It was wonderful. I just happened to be in Monticchiello … by chance, of course.’

  ‘And if I believe that …’

  Maxine grinned. ‘Well, you know … I did hear whispers.’

  ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘I was behind the old walls along with the partisans. Someone passed me a rifle. A rifle, can you imagine? The Fascists were attacking from below – no Germans, just Italian Fascists. Hundreds of them and only a hundred and fifty or so of us. Some of the women helped with loading, others kept bringing food and drink. I wish you could have seen it, Sofia. It was amazing.’

  ‘You won, I take it?’

  Her eyes glittered with excitement. ‘We did. Oh, the joy of killing those fucking bastards! The local partisans had held up the grain lorry and brought the contents for the villagers. The Fascists came in reprisal, but they ended up fleeing, dragging their dead behind them.’

  ‘Did you have many losses?’

  Her face fell. ‘Sadly, one or two. But they lost dozens. The idiots. We gave them a taste of their own medicine … Look, I’m going back. There’s to be a party. Low key. Well … not even a party really, more of a get-together to celebrate, but I want something nice to wear.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing. Are they not concerned about further reprisals?’

  Maxine winked. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

  Sofia couldn’t help smiling, seeing her so buoyant. ‘You can borrow something of mine if you like.’

  ‘Thank you. Some earrings and a shawl might be nice.’

  Upstairs, they spent a few minutes gazing into the wardrobe, and then Maxine began to pull out delicate silk blouses which she fingered longingly but deemed too small. Soon brightly coloured clothes lay strewn across the bed, but none would do. Then Sofia opened the drawer where she kept her scarves.

  ‘Have a look at this.’ She held up a rich crimson silk, fringed with gold tassels.

  ‘Oh,’ Maxine said and held it against her face. ‘It’s so soft. You’d let me borrow this?’

  ‘Just try to bring it back.’

  As she continued to admire it, Sofia remembered the day she and Lorenzo had found it in a tiny shop in Montmartre, perched at the top of a cobbled street. She’d fallen in love with the village atmosphere and, if it was possible, fallen even more deeply in love with Lorenzo.

  She smiled at Maxine. ‘But if you happen to lose it, we’ll simply have to return to Paris and buy another.’

  ‘You bought this with Lorenzo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re sure it’s all right?’

  Sofia gave her a hug and felt her heart thumping. This girl had been so good to Elsa and had come to mean such a lot to them both. ‘Wear it and enjoy it. We all deserve some fun now and then, don’t we, and I reckon if anyone has earnt it you have. Now, let’s look for some earrings.’

  When they found the perfect pair of gold hoops, Maxine put them on, slipped into a black dress that had belonged to Lorenzo’s sister, let loose her curling chestnut hair and wrapped the crimson scarf around her shoulders.

  ‘Like a gorgeous gypsy dancer,’ Sofia said.

  ‘Not too bold?’

  ‘Could anything ever be too bold on you?’

  Maxine laughed and Sofia laughed with her.

  ‘Can I borrow a red lipstick?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said and kissed Sofia’s cheek. ‘You’re a true friend. I’ll be back soon.’

  53.

  The celebration was held in the biggest square and all the townspeople joined in. No lamps were lit because of air raids and there was no visible moon, but there was local wine and someone played the fiddle quietly. It wasn’t long before all the young people were up on their feet. A strange kind of dancing it was, each bumping into the other in the dark, trying not to make too much noise, but somehow even more special. And no one would ever forget the night the ghosts came out to kick up their heels. Because in a way they’d all become ghosts, shadows of who they’d been before, even by daylight.

  Right from the start Maxine hooked up with a local woman, Adriana, who’d lost her husband early in the war while fighting on the German side.

  ‘It was hard,’ she said in a lull from the dancing during which they sat together to catch their breath. ‘When we switched sides, I mean. The Allies killed my Gianni and I hated them. I didn’t want them to win but later, when I saw what the Germans were doing to us, I realized it was the only way.’

  It was true, Maxine thought as she listened to the melancholy tune the fiddler was now playing. The sadness of it altered the mood and she imagined everyone would be thinking of people they’d lost or were still afraid of losing.

  ‘I saw you loading the guns earlier,’ Maxine said.

  ‘Wasn’t it great?’ Adriana’s eyes lit up.

  There was a moment of silence between them.

  ‘Did you lose somebody?’ Adriana asked. ‘Is it why you’re here?’

  Maxine looked at the ground.

  ‘You did, didn’t you? Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ There was a pause before Maxine continued. ‘He was a partisan. He died after a bomb exploded.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Marco. Marco Vallone.’

  The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Really? My maiden name was Vallone, but my brother is Luciano.’

  ‘I only heard his surname at the very end when he …’ She swallowed hard, remembering the moment. ‘He never really spoke of his family; said he didn’t want to put them in danger. He never even told me where he came from.’

  ‘And where are you from? You don’t sound local.’

  ‘New York, but my parents were from Tuscany.’

  ‘What did he look like, your Marco? Was he handsome?’

  Maxine smiled as she recalled the brilliance of his eyes. ‘Very. With a wicked side to him.’

  ‘Luciano is handsome too,’ Adriana said. ‘Come, I’ll show you a photograph.’

  They went into her small village house and as soon as Maxine glanced at the framed photograph on Adriana’s sideboard, her mind went into a spin. She picked the picture up and stared at it, her eyes swimming with tears. How could she tell Adriana the truth now? After a moment she brushed the tears away with the back of her hand.

  ‘Your Marco?’ Adriana whispered, her face ashen, already guessing what Maxine had seen. ‘He is my Luciano.’

  Distraught to be inadvertently bringing such terrible news, Maxine gazed at her. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Adriana blinked rapidly, took the photograph from Maxine and kissed it repeatedly, her face awash with tears. ‘My poor, poor brother. Can you tell me what happened? The details of how he died.’

  And after Maxine had unburdened herself of everything she had not wanted to talk about, had not until now been able to find the words, the two women held each
other and wept openly.

  ‘He was the only man I’ve ever loved,’ Maxine said as she eventually dried her eyes.

  Adriana nodded. ‘Same with Gianni … It hurts so much but it does get better after a while.’

  Maxine gazed at her. ‘Does it?’

  ‘Well, maybe it’s more like we get used to it. My brother was such a good man. I’m glad he had you to love him before he died. I’ve missed him so much, but I think I knew he wouldn’t be coming back. I was always waiting for the moment when I’d hear. It was his fate.’

  Maxine didn’t say she didn’t believe in fate. ‘Are your parents alive?’

  ‘There’s only me and my little boy, Emilio. My older brother is gone too, taken by Fascists before the war. I was only young at the time.’

  Maxine remembered Marco telling her about his brother. ‘I’m so sorry. It must have been awful. You’ve lost so many.’

  ‘I have my son.’ Adriana’s face blossomed as she spoke of her child. ‘He’s the spitting image of Luciano.’

  ‘So, where is your boy now?’

  ‘He’s with a friend of mine in Montepulciano. I knew there’d be trouble for a day or two after our local partisans held up the grain lorry and brought the food here. I didn’t want him to be around when the reprisals happened.’

  ‘Do you think there will be more reprisals?’

  ‘Let me put it this way. I wouldn’t want to be sleeping too soundly tonight.’

  Maxine gazed at Adriana, admiring the resilience and courage she saw in her eyes.

  ‘I’ll make you up a bed here on the sofa and lend you some of my clothes. You don’t want them to see you dressed like that. It’d be like rubbing salt in their wounds.’

  Early the next morning Maxine woke to a thunderous battering at Adriana’s front door. She jumped out of bed and smoothed her hair inside a scarf, which she knotted at her throat. Adriana rushed down the stairs and they both listened to the sound of other doors being battered further down the street.

  Adriana took a deep breath. ‘Ready?’

  Maxine said she was, and Adriana opened the door. Two steel-helmeted, pitiless German soldiers stormed in and turned the house upside down, leaving it in disarray, but finding nothing. There had been no physical abuse, just the threat of beatings if they did not comply. This scene was repeated in every house in the town.