When they heard the first bomb exploding, the younger children started to cry and the adults trembled and clutched each other. Sofia heard Carla praying, probably to San Sebastiano, and felt a growing apprehension about the tower. Would it be destroyed that night? Hilltop towns such as theirs were the most at risk.
The frightening moments passed as one of the old men pulled out a mouth organ and played to try to cover the sound of further bombs ripping through the sky. Some attempted to sing along, Carla louder and longer than anyone, but the crash and thunder was painfully close. Sofia clapped her hands over her ears, trying to sink into the silence of her mind, hoping and praying their homes wouldn’t be wrecked by bombs or fire. And yet Carla still sang for courage, for hope and for their survival. One of the old women took out her knitting and by the light of the lamp clicked and clacked for hours. The noise in the cellar, adding to the sweat and fear, mildew and earth, became too strong for Sofia and, in what she hoped might be a lull, she made her way upstairs with a small torch to light the way. She longed for air but when another bomb exploded in the distance, she crossed herself and headed back down where a commotion greeted her.
Her dogs were barking wildly and a woman was shrieking and waving her arms. ‘My sons, they have gone. My boys. I must have fallen asleep. Did anyone see them?’
Sofia held up the torch and scanned the startled, drawn faces, but it was clear the two boys she’d spotted earlier were nowhere to be seen.
‘Did they go upstairs?’ she asked.
A woman sitting cross-legged by the stairs spoke up. ‘No, I’d have seen them.’
The mother, beside herself, began to wail, and Sofia walked over to Carla and whispered that they needed to look for the boys.
‘But, Contessa,’ she said, ‘what if the oil in the lamp runs out? It is already low.’
But more loss was the last thing any of them needed so Sofia took her torch and entered one of the tunnels herself.
57.
Maxine had gone back to Monticchiello to spend some time staying with Adriana and playing with her little boy, who was home now and so resembled his uncle Marco. She saw it in the way he smiled, the way he laughed and the way he could suddenly become so serious. Marco was always in her mind. She remembered what he had been to her, how much he had meant, and the legacy with which he had left her: a capacity to love she’d never known could be hers. She’d laboured tirelessly with the local women helping the partisans and now, along with many of them, she was bursting with excitement as she waited at the top of Montepulciano. Her cousin, Davide, was there too and his wife, Lara.
A cheer went up as the first British foot soldiers crawled along the narrow streets of the ancient hilltop town and then a little later their tanks rolled into the square at the top. Maxine stood jubilantly with a rifle Davide had obtained for her slung across her shoulder, relieved the roar and smoke of battle was over, at least here. Old women wept openly as children chased each other, shrieking with the kind of joy that had been missing for so long as they caught sweets the soldiers were flinging into the crowd. The younger women embraced the soldiers, kissing them on their cheeks and plying them with glasses of wine, their eyes dancing with joy. Old men clapped each other on the back and there was not a single Fascist to be found. Maxine had spent the last hour seeking them out, but with the approach of the Allies, every single one had fled or suddenly switched sides. That wasn’t going to help them in the days ahead. In the late afternoon one of the British soldiers told her the Nazis had looted everything from every single place they’d passed through: blankets, clothing, books, poultry, anything edible, plus precious works of art. Maxine realized she needed to get back to the Castello to warn Sofia before it happened there. Anything they couldn’t take with them, the Nazis burnt or destroyed. So, with Sofia’s beautiful family home firmly in mind, she retrieved her motorcycle and headed downhill, waving at the soldiers as she did. The Castello, north-west of Montepulciano, was about twenty-five miles away if she took the main road, but as she faced the risk of being gunned down, she decided to go for the hidden tracks. She might not have long before the Germans began doing their worst so would just have to hope she didn’t get lost.
58.
In the morning Sofia made her way to the tower to check that it hadn’t been damaged the night before. The air reeked with the acrid smell of smoke and God only knew what else. She thought again about the two boys they’d been unable to find. Half the village were now out looking for them in case they’d made it to the further woods, while Anna and two of her friends explored the tunnels with oil lamps, torches and chalk to mark their way back.
By the evening they still hadn’t been found and Carla was at their mother’s house taking care of the poor woman, who was beside herself with worry. As it was quiet, Sofia dared hope there might be a lull in the bombing and that they might still find the boys. She made her way to her lamp-lit private salon, and there, she picked up a book. But try as she might, she couldn’t concentrate; after every sentence her mind strayed, and she needed to reread it. It was impossible to get lost in a story when you were constantly on alert as you waited for the next planes to fly over. She picked up her knitting instead. Sometimes it helped to do something with her hands, but she was even too restless for that. She thought a lot about the past and what the future might or might not hold. She had closed the windows to keep out the smoke but it was warm, really warm, so she stuffed her knitting back in the basket on the small table by her wing-backed chair, then opened a window to lean out and listen to the hum of mating cicadas. The air was softer now, reminding her of walking with Lorenzo on those June evenings when it hadn’t quite cooled and they’d spend an hour or two before twilight, batting away the flies but nevertheless enjoying being outside.
A man’s cough interrupted her reverie. Her heart swelled with relief as she whirled round, thinking it must be Lorenzo. At long last.
It was not Lorenzo.
It was Major Kaufmann, leaning nonchalantly against the door frame.
‘Oh,’ she said, fazed by his unexpected arrival. ‘Have you been watching me? I didn’t hear a car. Where’s your driver?’
He straightened up and gave her a stiff little bow. ‘Do forgive the intrusion. I did knock.’
‘Carla isn’t here.’
‘I let myself in.’
She frowned, taking in his myopic blue eyes which looked out icily from behind the horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘She should have locked the door.’
‘Lucky for me, then. My car is a little way down the hill. I’m here on a private matter – at least, it should be if all goes well.’
‘I assumed you’d be gone. Surely you are retreating by now?’
‘That is not a word I choose to use. We will be taking up alternative defences, when we’re ready, that is all. I have a few loose ends to tie up here first.’
‘Loose ends here?’ she asked, trying for indifference but, completely bewildered by what he had meant, her throat dried.
‘Indeed.’ He smiled, a smile so chilling it had no hope of reaching his eyes.
‘The Allies will be here soon.’
‘You may be right but, understand this: they cannot fight the might of the Reich and win.’ He laughed. ‘It is impossible, you see.’
They locked eyes and a shiver ran down her spine. She wondered if he was mad. If they were all mad in their unswerving belief in Hitler and the Reich. She steeled herself to speak. ‘So, may I ask what it is you want?’
‘Ah. I had hoped for a little civility before getting down to business, but since you ask … My superior officer is certain the radio the partisans have been using is here and has tasked me with locating it before we leave. The triangulation pinpoints this location.’
A beat or two passed and she noticed he didn’t seem quite so well built without his greatcoat. ‘I have no idea to what you’re referring.’
‘Come now, Contessa. No need to be so haughty. We both know that isn’t true.’
> Sofia commanded her skin not to reveal her guilt but, certain her cheeks had coloured, she could feel the heat rising. She took a slow breath to cover her initial response. It didn’t work. Instead, the apprehension she’d felt before grew stronger, tightening the muscles of her throat until she felt she might be about to choke.
He tilted his head and took a step forward. He now stood behind the chintz sofa and was trailing his fingers along the back of it. His nails were clean, perfectly manicured. ‘There, you see,’ he said. ‘I can always tell when someone is lying. I think you have been lying. And on more than one occasion.’
‘How ridiculous,’ she managed to mutter. ‘What would I know about radios and transmitters?’
‘Did I mention a transmitter?’ He frowned. ‘No … I do not think so.’
‘You mentioned partisans using a radio. Naturally, they would have a transmitter.’
‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said.
‘Where are your men?’
He ignored her question and walked over to the painting of San Sebastiano. ‘A fine piece,’ he said as he twisted round to study her face. ‘So beautiful.’
This time she couldn’t stop herself flinching under his cold appraisal. Was he referring to her or to the painting?
He laughed, mocking her. ‘The painting, I mean, of course. You didn’t think I meant you?’
‘No.’
‘You are looking rather drawn if you don’t mind me saying. Lost your bloom a little, I think.’ He gave another short laugh. ‘But I’m sure we agree this picture is quite wonderful and it never ages, unlike a beautiful woman. Well, well, here’s the deal.’ He took a few steps away but then went quiet, staring at the intricate patterns of the encaustic floor tiles.
A short silence followed, leaving her confused, not at all sure what was going on.
‘Now, where was I?’ He raised his head, glanced at her.
‘You were talking about a deal.’
He smiled disdainfully. ‘I feel these matters of business are somewhat beneath me. But of course. Of course. The deal is, you gift me this little painting and I report back that the radio is simply not here.’
She stifled a laugh. Surely, he was joking? It wasn’t as if she could stop him from just taking the painting if he wanted.
‘You don’t like my idea? You think it’s funny?’
Just for a moment, his face darkened in anger. He hid it quickly, but she had glimpsed it. Oh yes.
‘No. It isn’t funny; I simply don’t believe you.’ She looked him right in the eye and his brows shot up.
‘What kind of talk is this? I am a man of my word.’
‘So, I give you the painting and then off you go? Just like that?’
He shrugged.
She wasn’t sure what else to say as he took a few steps closer to her. ‘It’s an excellent offer … You will all be shot otherwise. On suspicion, you see. I do not enjoy shooting women.’
‘Suspicion?’
He came right up to her and lifted her chin to look into her eyes. Then he pushed the hair from her forehead, and she fought the impulse to spit in his face.
‘You are not a stupid woman.’
‘This is crazy,’ she said, backing away and bumping into the side table. ‘You can’t waltz in here and demand to take a painting. My husband would have a fit if he knew.’
He shook his head and walked back to finger the frame of the painting lovingly. She tried to remember where she’d put the gun. She knew, of course she knew … every day, she knew, every hour of every day, but then, right then, her mind had gone completely blank.
‘No,’ she said, desperately needing to buy herself time while she worked out what to do. He would take it whatever she did, and after all, it was only a painting. And yet … not even sure why, she persevered. Pride maybe, or pig-headedness, or maybe just so fed up with them taking whatever they fancied, she wanted to dig her heels in for once. He’d probably shoot her whatever she did. ‘Unquestionably, you cannot take it. Lorenzo would never forgive me if I allowed it.’
He looked back over his shoulder at her. ‘Ah, now. I am afraid your husband is not in any position to forgive you or otherwise.’
Her heart lurched. ‘What do you mean?’
In the moment of silence, during which he turned to face her, she felt her knees beginning to buckle. Just in time, she stiffened and managed to resist.
‘Your husband, my dear lady, has been working for the enemy. Terrible shame really.’
She stared at him.
‘I’ll throw in another offer.’
She gulped back the tears pricking the back of her eyelids and, in a flash, she remembered exactly where she’d hidden the gun.
‘Not only will I report that the radio is not here, I’ll also give my men the order not to destroy the Castello … and not to touch anything in it. We’ll leave you all in peace. There now, it’s an offer you can’t refuse.’
‘What has happened to my husband?’ she hissed, hardly able to get the words out.
He smiled. ‘Oh, my dear lady, how he danced. They dance, you know, on the end of the rope. Jerk their legs about. A little jig is all. It’s rather entertaining … I take it you agree to my offer?’
He had his back to her again and was removing the painting from the wall. She stepped backwards and, as he murmured his appreciation of the picture, she silently retrieved her gun from the knitting basket and held it behind her back. She wondered for a moment if he was goading her, provoking her, to see how far he could go.
‘Major,’ she said quite clearly, ‘about your offer,’ and he turned with the picture under his arm, perfectly confident of her compliance, and nonchalantly scratching the back of his neck. He was so delighted to have the painting, his face looked a little less cruel, but she couldn’t let anything deter her, could she? And then he smiled.
Up until the moment she saw that twisted smile, the one that wasn’t really a smile at all, she had not been certain she could go through with it. As she willed her courage, her whole life gathered in front of her as if it were she who might be the one about to die. She glanced at the window and the moment stretched on and on, and yet it could only have been for a split second. The heat rose, igniting such a fury in her that she knew this was it.
Before he had time to register what she was about to do, she whipped the gun round from behind her back, took aim and shot him twice in the chest. It had to be twice. One for Aldo and one for Lorenzo. He stepped back, forced by the momentum, still on his feet, his eyes widening in surprise. She imagined she might have been the one to collapse on the floor, the aftershock making it impossible to breathe, but it was he who twitched grotesquely, groaned as he fell and then slumped back against the wall, his chin dropping to his blood-soaked chest. The wall will be a terrible mess, she thought. After a moment or two he was completely still. ‘A little jig is all,’ she whispered, ‘so entertaining,’ and then she closed her eyes. For a moment she dared not look for fear he wasn’t dead and might still rise up and throttle her. That apart, she felt nothing. Then she opened her eyes again to watch the blood spreading on the floor and she still felt nothing. She stared down at the gun in her hand, unsure what to do. It was easy to kill a man, far easier than you’d think. And then she was gripped by a strange unshakeable feeling: she was not the person she’d believed she was. The word for this did not exist. This being but not being. When she looked up, the light in the room had softened even further, a lovely golden light falling on the wall behind Kaufmann, quite beautiful, but she noticed their gorgeous gold painting was now turning crimson with his blood. The room shrank inwards, dizzyingly.
As if her will had deserted her, she sank into a kind of torpor. It drained her strength, her soul … everything, and she was lost as if in a trance. She kept thinking she should do something, act, clean up the mess, the blood, the bits of flesh she could see sticking to the wall, but felt paralysed in those moments of total silence. Then two voices from her past started whis
pering in her head, beckoning her, insisting she listen to what they had to say. And so, she did. First to her father and then Lorenzo. It was vital she heard them, but their voices became indistinct, and she couldn’t work out what they wanted. She reached for Lorenzo, wanting to touch his skin, look in his eyes, but was met with only air. She glanced at her empty arms and saw the gun again. The two men merged into one. The two men she had loved the most. Both gone. And when their voices ceased, she felt as if she’d failed them unforgivably and the pain was unbearable. No one could understand what loss really meant until they’d lost the most precious, most loved person in their world. Now she heard someone else calling her name, although it was coming from very far away. There was a sound of whimpering and she realized it was her. She was the one who was whimpering.
59.
By the time Maxine arrived back at the Castello from Montepulciano it was already evening. Feeling grateful and more than a little relieved not to have come under fire, she parked her motorcycle and spotted Carla walking wearily across the square.
‘I thought I heard gunshots as I came up,’ she said. ‘They sounded close. Did you hear them?’
Carla shrugged. ‘There’s always gunfire. Tell me when there isn’t.’
‘So, what’s been happening here? I saw a German vehicle parked part way down the hill. Not a soul in it.’
They reached the back door and found it slightly ajar. Carla frowned. ‘I couldn’t have locked it.’
Maxine raised her brows. ‘Careless of you.’
‘I’ve been a bit distracted,’ Carla grumbled. ‘Two boys went missing. One has turned up but not the other. His brother thinks he’s still hiding in the woods.’
They went into the shadowy hall and Maxine called out. ‘Sofia, Elsa?’
The Tuscan Contessa Page 30