63.
Two hours later
Lorenzo sat in the British army jeep as it climbed the track to gradually encircle the Castello. Lightheaded with relief and expectation, and loving the scents of home – the rosemary, the lemons, the earth itself – he couldn’t avoid the smell of smoke still hanging heavily in the air. But after the subterfuge, the danger, the running, the hiding and the imprisonment, he felt overjoyed to be home.
The jeep came to a halt outside the grand archway into the Castello. The British were travelling northwards but they’d agreed to bring him here, even though it had been a little out of their way. Of course, he’d have walked the two hundred or so kilometres to get home, but the offer of a lift saved time and now he couldn’t wait. Out of politeness he asked if they’d like to see something of the Castello and the three men readily climbed out, happy to stretch their legs. After they passed through the archway and the familiar stone walls that had kept Lorenzo’s family safe for generations, they entered the piazza. In air teeming with flying insects, they gazed in awe and batted the mosquitoes away with their hands.
‘Don’t get these in Yorkshire,’ one of them joked.
Lorenzo loved the twilight, the absence of shadows, the beautiful buildings silhouetted against the sweet, still sky, and the way, apart from the insects, it was all so tranquil. Too still maybe? But it would be dark soon so anyone out for an evening stroll would probably have headed inside. He was thrilled as he imagined Sofia’s beautiful face wreathed in smiles as she ran to greet him. It had been far too long, so he gave the British lads the briefest of tours and then bid them farewell, clapping each one on the back and wishing them good luck.
They took one final look at the ancient buildings and the view across the Val d’Orcia, now fading with the last of the light.
‘Gorgeous place, mate,’ another one of them said, and the others nodded.
He was delighted to hear it and, happy that nothing too bad appeared to have happened there, he glanced around again, just in case. All the buildings were intact – a blessing indeed. Then he strode towards the front door, heart thumping with inexpressible longing for Sofia. Her eyes, her smile, her long dark hair. And that way she had of looking at him, right in the middle of doing something else, so that only he knew how much she cared. But then he felt a slight stab of apprehension, which could sometimes happen after a prolonged separation. He chided himself and chuckled at his idiocy. Sofia would be as excited to see him as he was to see her.
He took out his key, unlocked the door and stepped inside the house, calling out for Sofia in his eagerness. There was no reply, and with a sudden sickening feeling in his gut he sensed that something was wrong. As he moved closer to Sofia’s little salon, he heard urgent whispers. Carla came out of the room in answer to his call, her face blotchy, wiping red, swollen eyes with her apron.
‘Carla?’
But Carla’s mouth had fallen open.
‘Carla,’ he said again.
She still didn’t speak but as she pointed at Sofia’s room, an icy chill swept through him. What the hell was going on here?
He strode into the room where he saw Maxine kneeling beside somebody lying on the sofa.
‘Maxine?’ he said. She didn’t seem to hear at first then lifted her face and looked at him, wide-eyed, as if astonished that he should be there.
He gulped at the air and moved closer, and then he saw his darling girl lying on the sofa, her face entirely devoid of colour. Fear formed a lump in his throat so large he could not swallow and he could feel the pain crushing his chest.
Maxine rose to her feet and held out her palm as if to stop him. ‘No. It’s not … she’s not,’ she said.
And then Sofia’s eyes flew open and she stared at him as if in utter disbelief. In a split second she was on her feet, her trembling hand covering her mouth, audibly gasping for breath, and then her whole body seemed to freeze as if in shock. She swayed, he ran, and then he caught her in his arms as she passed out.
He carried her back to the sofa. She was so light, so fragile, and when she came to, he held her close, wanting never to let go of her again. Never, ever. He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her forehead, but her skin was cold and tinged with blue. She was still gazing at him with such a look of wonder, he could not understand her bewilderment.
‘For a minute I thought you were gone,’ he said. ‘Oh God, I could not have borne it.’
She reached out to stroke his face, shaking her head and drinking him in. ‘Is it really you?’
He smiled. ‘Of course it’s me. Why are you looking as if you’ve seen a ghost?’
‘Because you are a ghost.’ She blinked rapidly. ‘Because this is impossible. They told me …’ She bit her lip as she took a shuddering breath and her voice choked as she said the awful words. ‘They told me you’d been hanged.’
As they sat side by side, staring at each other, he wanted to howl out his rage at the anguish she must have gone through.
Tears moistened her eyes but did not fall. My God, she was strong, he thought. His adored girl. There was so much to say but now the rising emotions of love and overwhelming joy stopped his voice. He took her hands and placed them in his lap, stroking them, lifting them again, kissing them, allowing them to fall once more. Then he began to weep, swallowing at air, his shoulders juddering. He could see and feel his own tears falling on their linked hands, hot, furious tears. She drew up his hand and kissed away the tears and they continued to sit close until the darkness came.
Maxine entered the room with a coffee for both of them and it was only then he realized they hadn’t been alone. Sofia’s mother, Elsa, was sitting quietly in the corner, her eyes puffy, the silent grief etched into every line of her face. Sofia got up and went over to Elsa. They held each other, rocking back and forth for a few minutes.
Then his wife came back to him, held out her arms, and together they walked upstairs to their bedroom.
Once there, he gently laid Sofia on top of the eiderdown, now able to find his voice and whisper all that he wanted to say, had dreamt of saying, would go on saying for the rest of his life. Those few seconds during which he’d thought she was gone had cut very deep indeed. He told her how profoundly he loved her, how much he’d missed her, repeating over and over, ‘You are the love of my life. The only love of my life.’ Then, after a while, when there were no more words, they simply held hands and stared into the mystery of each other’s eyes, from time to time shaking their heads, still overcome both by relief and disbelief. She wrapped her arms around him, comforting him, luminous, her eyes alive with light.
‘You’re warmer now,’ he said. ‘You were so cold.’
‘I spent too long in the tower.’
‘Why?’
She shook her head and put a finger to his lips.
She was right, he thought, there’d be plenty of time to hear about everything later. Now all they needed was there in that room. The feeling in both their hearts was so immense it could never be described or ever told. Release. Reprieve. Liberty. A second chance. All those things but, most of all, the deep abiding gratitude that they were both alive.
Suddenly, out of the blue, she said, ‘Do you remember the day we first met?’
‘I remember how your face lit up at some silly joke I’d made and the way the laughter bubbled out of you.’
And in that moment of remembering he felt it again as the same infectious, joyous laughter took hold of them both.
64.
September 1945
On the eighth of May, 1945, the Allies accepted Germany’s surrender. As one of those who had lived through the war in Italy, Sofia had seen its brutality at close hand, as had all the villagers of the Castello. They’d suffered the deepest sorrows and yet they hadn’t given up or given in. With resourcefulness and determination, those in the resistance and those supporting the resistance had held out against home-grown fascism and the fascism from abroad. Sofia felt proud to have been part of it, although Lore
nzo had been astonished when she’d told him everything she’d done. His eyes had widened, and he’d gazed at her with such a depth of admiration and love it made her heart falter.
They now knew that when the last of the German soldiers left Florence, the partisans had walked through the deserted streets ahead of just a few Allied soldiers coming up behind. They’d glimpsed hundreds of eyes silently staring out at them from the bottom half of otherwise shuttered windows, then slowly at first, eventually rising in a crescendo, hundreds of hands began to clap. The partisans were in tears, the soldiers were in tears and, Sofia felt sure, most of the citizens must have been too.
And now, on a beautiful, shiny September day, Sofia was sitting outside in the garden next to the pomegranate tree as she pondered these things, thanking God it really was all over. At the sound of the back door opening, she turned her head.
‘Maxine!’ She rose to her feet, smiling broadly, and ran to her friend. ‘I’m so happy to see you again.’
The two women embraced, hugging each other for the longest time.
Sofia stepped back first, held Maxine by the hands and scrutinized her face. ‘You’ve been gone so long. More than a year.’
‘I know. I had to go home. The British were fantastic, arranged my flights and everything.’
Sofia reached out a hand to touch her. ‘Your hair is shorter.’
Maxine smiled and turned her head from side to side so that her bobbed hair swung. ‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s gorgeous.’
‘Thanks.’ She paused for a moment. ‘You look well, Sofia.’
‘Carla has been fattening me up. Now tell me about you.’
‘Well, I’ve been back in Italy for a short time now, looking up relatives and people my parents once knew in Santa Cecilia.’
‘You talked to your parents about Matteo?’
‘A little. It was pretty tense, I can tell you. And I’ve just been visiting with Marco’s sister before coming here.’
‘How was she, and his little nephew, of course?’
‘Absolutely wonderful … But how are you, Sofia, really?’
‘I’m good. Honestly, I am. Shall we sit?’ And then she gazed at her friend with serious eyes as she drew up a chair.
‘What is it?’ Maxine asked as they both sat.
‘We never talked, did we? You left so quickly … after Lorenzo returned.’
‘I know. It felt like the right thing to do. You and Lorenzo needed the time together.’
Sofia’s brow furrowed as she looked down at the ground and then up again at Maxine. ‘It’s a terribly hard thing to say, but I had intended to do it, you know.’
Maxine nodded. ‘Yes. I think I know that too.’
‘I couldn’t bear that after everything we’d gone through, I was going to have to live my life without Lorenzo. I think I went a little bit crazy after killing Kaufmann.’
Maxine held out her hand. Sofia took it and squeezed.
‘I was absolutely bloody terrified,’ Maxine said. ‘I’ve never run so fast, and my heart was pounding so damn hard I thought it was going to stop. And then, there you were, calmly coming down the stairs.’
‘And you barged straight into me, sent me flying.’
They both laughed.
‘Your face. You were absolutely scarlet from running up the stairs.’
Maxine shook her head. ‘You gave me the fright of my life, lady. Look,’ and she pointed at her hair. ‘Grey!’
Sofia peered closely. ‘Not even one,’ she scoffed.
‘I can’t tell you how unbelievably glad I am that you changed your mind.’ Maxine paused to look down before glancing sideways at Sofia. ‘I never had the chance to ask you why. When we came back inside the house you were so ashen and so cold, I couldn’t begin to interrogate you then. Do you mind if I ask you now?’
‘It’s fine.’ Sofia let out a long, slow breath. Thinking back to the worst day of her life was painful and she keenly felt the shame of what she’d almost done, but she knew Maxine deserved an answer. ‘It was several things,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to live, and that’s the truth, but I thought of my mother and that brought me back from the brink. What it would have done to her after the loss of my father. I thought of you too. I couldn’t let you down, nor Carla, or Anna, or the villagers. People had died who’d wanted so much to live.’
Maxine’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Marco.’
‘Yes. How could I have done that to him? Or Aldo, or anyone who had fought so bravely. No. I had to honour the ones who died by living my life, not escaping it.’
‘Didn’t you choose to stay alive for yourself too?’
Sofia nodded slowly. ‘Yes. That too, in the end. I did choose life. But I can’t deny I felt the pull of such an overpowering urge to jump, to fall into oblivion, to let it all go.’
There was a long silence as Maxine brushed her tears away. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said eventually as she rose to her feet. ‘Shall we walk a little now?’
They wandered through the village, and then stood looking out across the Val d’Orcia at the sunshine after rain. The trees dripping with moisture, their leaves sparkling. The summer coming to an end, the light less harsh. The vineyards bursting with perfumed grapes. And they both knew it was an ending of sorts.
‘One thing is certain,’ Maxine said as she gazed up into the distant, shimmering hills. ‘I will never forgive Kaufmann for the lie he told you. Of all the terrible things that happened, that was one of the cruellest. Thank God you had time to reflect.’
‘I thank God for that all the time. But you know there is a price to pay for killing a person.’
‘And that is?’
‘I’m not sure I know yet. It’s internal. Hard to put your finger on.’
‘What does Lorenzo think about it?’
‘I haven’t told him how I feel. It will take a while. For now, I think we both just want to forget. He doesn’t talk about his imprisonment either, but there are marks on his body that weren’t there before.’
‘Oh, Sofia.’
Sofia gave a slight shake of her head. ‘I didn’t have to kill Kaufmann, you know. I could have just let him take the painting.’
‘He may well have had you shot anyway.’
‘Well, there it is. I did it. I never thought I’d be capable of such a thing.’ There were a few moments of silence, then Sofia spoke again. ‘And you, Maxine, what about you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’re changed too, aren’t you? You seem, I don’t know, softer maybe?’
Maxine smiled. ‘I don’t know either, but I do feel as if I have a more definite identity now. Does that sound silly?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I didn’t know who I was when I came here. Now at least I’m halfway to finding out.’
Sofia smiled. ‘I think I’ve always known who you were, even if you didn’t. You are the most courageous, vital person I’ve ever met, and I will miss you so much more than I can say. But, Maxine, you’ll always be welcome at the Castello.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And until you come back, I’ll think of you often and pray for you every day.’
‘You pray now?’
Sofia laughed. ‘Better late than never.’
‘Well, I will miss you too.’ Maxine sniffed and blinked away a tear.
Sofia took her hand. ‘At least things are looking up now. My mother is showing signs of slowly coming back to life, beginning to come through the darkest time.’
‘Gabriella had her baby?’ Maxine asked.
‘Oh yes. A boy. Carla and Maria compete over who is the best grandmother, or great-grandmother in Maria’s case, and they quarrel about whose turn it is to mind little Aldo.’
Sofia thought back to the day they discovered Maria had not passed on the information Gabriella gave her; it had been such a relief to know the girl was not to blame. They never did find out who had betrayed them. People had wondered about Giulia,
the maid who had left so suddenly, but nothing could ever be proven, even if they did suspect her. The missing boy had turned up, thankfully, none the worse for wear, although starving hungry. He’d been hiding in a hollow tree all the time.
‘Did you ever finish the painting of Aldo?’ Maxine asked.
‘Of course. Carla has it in her bedroom now.’
‘It must bring her comfort.’
‘I hope.’ Sofia sighed. ‘So, when do you go back to America?’
‘I’m sailing in a week’s time. Sorry it’s such a short visit but my poor long-suffering parents. We did talk about Matteo, as I said, but there’s still so much more to say. I’ll come back here though, maybe even next year, or the one after. And that’s a promise. I have to earn some money first.’
‘Journalism again?’
Maxine nodded. ‘I’ve had a few offers, even wrote a few pieces when I first arrived home.’
‘Good for you. And, whenever it is, we’ll be happy to see you. This is where you belong, at least a part of you, and where you always will belong.’
As they walked back to the house, arm in arm, Sofia knew neither of them would ever forget that day at the end of June: the heat, the bright light, the Allies arriving and the sun about to fall from the sky. The day that Lorenzo had come home, and she had chosen to live. She wondered if future generations, future visitors even, would have any sense of what had happened there as they gazed at the rolling hills and valleys, and at the avenues of cypress trees. When they saw the brilliance of spring – the fields carpeted with vivid red poppies, the verges teeming with wildflowers and the air alive with butterflies – what would they think?
And when they smelt freshly baked bread and strolled in the gardens where the scent of rosemary and sweet jasmine lingered, would their hearts sing as hers did? Or in their mind’s eye would they see German tanks and steel-helmeted soldiers? Would they envy the simplicity of country life or would they wonder how the people had survived?
As they drove through this breathtaking landscape, would it be peace they felt? Peace – such a small word for something so huge, and something they took so much for granted, until it was gone.
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