by Gordon Kerr
Bruno, in turn placed his knife and fork on the table and took the card from Michael.
‘Massimo Di Livio, Via Broletto No. 110, Milano.’ He read from the card and then turned it over in his fingers like a playing card with which he was performing a conjuring trick. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know the name, but I know the street. To live in Via Broletto it helps if you have a lot of money in the bank. This guy is pretty well off.’ He sat up, as if a thought had just occurred to him. ‘But, hey, here’s an idea. Why don’t I run his name through our computers back at the office and have a word with a few people? Even if this isn’t your man, he may at least be able to point you in the right direction.’
Michael concurred. ‘Well, if it’s not too much trouble …’
‘It’s no trouble at all, Michael. To tell you the truth, I’d like to help you get to the bottom of this. You seem a little, how do you say … dislocated from things, my friend. Understandably so, I might add.’
‘Yes, you’re right, Bruno,’ Michael replied, nodding and smiling slightly. ‘I think I need what our American friends would call closure.’
They finished the meal talking about the old days and took leave of each other, agreeing to speak by telephone later in the day once Bruno had made his enquiries.
Michael walked unsteadily back to the Stazione Centrale and, even after drinking a bitter espresso at the bar in which he had waited in vain earlier in the day, he dozed all the way back to Beldoro, waking with a start as the train pulled into the station. He had intended to finish his piece at the office, but he had drunk way too much and would need to sleep it off before he could concentrate sufficiently to put together something cogent.
His shadow in the heavy jacket who had followed him to the newspaper office and sat at a corner table of the restaurant, slowly eating a dish of pasta, watched him climb onto the train before walking purposefully in the direction of a phone box at the exit to the station.
‘Michael! I so enjoyed our lunch. I am just sorry it couldn’t have taken place in happier circumstances.’
Michael’s head felt fuzzy. He had lain down and almost immediately fallen asleep on the bed when he had returned to his room. Just before the telephone’s shrill ring had jarred his senses around seven, he had once again found himself in the blue room with Rosa’s flailing body speeding towards him, but never quite reaching him, on the bonnet of the blue car.
‘But let me tell you, I’ve found something on your Massimo Di Livio. Something very interesting.’
‘Yes, go on, Bruno. What have you got?’ He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, making himself comfortable against the headboard of the bed.
‘Now look, Michael, you said that this man was a big man?’
‘Yes … the jacket was a size forty-four. I don’t know what that is in European sizes …’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Michael, I’ve bought clothes in England. Forty-four is a substantial man. Not as substantial as me, of course, but that only comes with a lot of practice.’
Michael smiled.
‘No.’ His voice turned serious now. ‘This Di Livio character, he is known to us. In fact, he is known also to the police; perhaps a little more intimately than we know him.’
‘What do you mean, Bruno?’
‘Well, I asked around – as you know I have some friends in the police – and I also had a look in our archives and came up with some interesting stuff about signor Di Livio.’ There was a moment’s silence and Michael guessed that Bruno was probably taking a sip from a glass of the bourbon he had grown to like so much in the States and which had been the cause of so many hangovers during those few weeks. ‘For example, in 1968, he was suspected of being one of the henchmen of a guy running a protection racket in Turin. Three of his colleagues went to prison. He walked.’ Another pause, another sip. ‘In 1973, he was charged with rearranging the face of another character in the same line of business. Again, he walked – this guy has good lawyers, believe me. He stayed clean for ten years and then in 1979 he did time for some very tricksy financial dealings. His crime had gone legit,’ – Bruno enjoyed using the argot of the American crime novels he loved so dearly – ‘but signore Di Livio hadn’t. He did three years and since he came out he seems to have kept his nose clean. He is very careful.’
‘Good God, Bruno. That’s unbelievable! How could Rosa get mixed up with such a man?’ Michael was by now sitting bolt upright on his bed.
‘That’s just it, Michael. I’ve asked around and I also found some pictures. This is a seventy-year-old man who is as thin as a string of spit and is no more than five feet five inches tall. And if that wasn’t enough to convince you, well, let me just say that from the conversations I have had, Di Livio’s proclivities lie on the more, erm, muscular side, if you get my drift. No, believe me, Michael, this is definitely not your man.’
9
March 1944
Near Val Masino
The Valtellina
North Italy
Sandro nodded to a man whose name he did not know as he left the camp in Luigi’s footsteps.
There were now some thirty-five men in the group of which Sandro was a member. They lived in these mountains over which they had total control, only visiting their families under cover of darkness or when they were absolutely certain of their safety.
In the early months of 1944, the politicians in Milan and Rome seemed finally to have come to some sort of agreement amongst themselves as to who the real enemy was and the Allies, from an earlier position of doubt, had gradually begun to understand the value these groups of fighters, no matter their political colour, could provide in blowing up bridges and sabotaging troop movements. At the same time, men had been flocking to join the nearest partisan group as the Germans began to send fit Italian men to do war work in Germany. Even if they escaped the dire consequences of transportation to the Fatherland, they still faced the possibility of being called up by Mussolini to support the Republic he had set up in Salò. Many of the partisans were also deserters from the Italian army and other groups contained American, British and Canadian soldiers, prisoners of war who had escaped from the Italian camps and whose fighting experience was proving invaluable in this guerrilla warfare.
The atmosphere in the camp was nervous. Operations in the valley had recently been very successful and had hurt the local German garrison very badly. They were having to throw more and more men into the fight against the partisans, distracting them from the even more serious threat of the Allied invasion from the south, which signalled the beginning of a push planned to take the Allies relentlessly to Berlin.
There were reports drifting back from the valley that the Germans were beginning to take steps against the local population. The slightest infringement of the stringent laws the occupying army had introduced resulted in harsh punishments for young and old. Thus, many of the men feared for their loved ones and guiltily prayed that it would be someone else’s family that would suffer.
Sandro was no different. He was a hardened fighting man now. He had taken part in many actions, had done his share whenever it was required. His face, too had taken on a toughened look, had become weather-beaten and sharp. He had the air of someone older than his years. Lack of sleep and long hours staring down the barrel of his gun had carved an experience into his countenance that would have otherwise taken years to achieve.
His hardness, the cold, expressionless way in which he went about the business of waging war on strangers, mostly as young as, or even younger than him, had not, however, eroded his thoughts and feelings for those he loved.
His father was dead. He had at last succumbed to his long illness before Christmas – and Sandro now had only his mother to worry about. She would be alright, however, and was unlikely to find herself in trouble, even from this occupying army who found trouble in a gaze in the street that lingered a few seconds too long.
He worried constantly, however, about Angela. He saw her infrequently, still in their clearing amongst the tr
ees. She seemed almost happier these days, no longer having to listen for the language of Luigi’s footsteps every night, no longer having to anticipate his mood and whether it was going to cause her pain, for he, of course, like Sandro was living in the mountains, moving camp every few nights to evade capture, although the Germans now ventured rarely into the higher slopes of the mountains, so tightly did the partisans control them.
Therefore, the group acted almost as it pleased and struck at the Germans frequently and effectively. Money, too, was coming in to help their efforts and it was to ease the transport of money to another group that Luigi and Sandro were walking back along the side of the valley towards Chiavenna.
They were to meet up with members of a squad from the valleys to the west who had accompanied from the Swiss border an Englishman bearing a large sum of money, which would furnish a brigade further along the valley with a war chest. Luigi and Sandro had orders to guide the Englishman to the edge of the territory that they patrolled by tomorrow evening, when they would be met by the other group.
The smell of a wood-fire alerted them to the proximity of the other partisans and a great deal of back-slapping and hand-shaking took place following their arrival in the clearing where the others had been waiting.
‘Falcone!’ – this was the nom de guerre that Luigi had adopted, as all did to avoid any casual connection of their names with espionage activities – ‘good to see you. How goes it in the Valtellina? Come and have something to eat and tell us how many Germans you’ve killed.’ They all laughed.
In the valleys of North Italy, Luigi – ‘Il Falcone’ – had by now gained a brutal reputation for dispatching the enemy in a fairly unceremonious fashion. Since that day on which Dino had given up his life all those months ago, and on which Sandro had cried for the two terrified, young Germans that Luigi had executed in the trees, he had witnessed Luigi’s ability to turn his heart icy cold on many occasions. In fact, he had become immune to it, the more frequently he had experienced it. So, he listened to Luigi’s immodest recounting of recent actions and his lurid details of the deaths of tens of Germans without much interest.
Meanwhile, the Englishman sat apart from them, studying maps and scribbling in a small notebook. He was slight of build, with thinning hair. A pair of round, wire-rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose gave him the air of an academic. Sandro speculated that he had probably been a school-teacher or something similar before the war.
He walked over to the edge of the clearing where the Englishman was sitting.
‘We weren’t introduced,’ – Luigi had deemed Sandro too unimportant to introduce properly to the group – ‘I’m Lupo.’ Sandro, too, had another name by which the war knew him. It was as if they all wished to divest themselves of their true selves for the duration of this conflict, as if their actions during these times could be considered to have been carried out by people who were not actually them. They were like performers, actors on a stage, taking on the roles of these soldiers, these killers.
‘Ah, Lupo. A good name, indeed!’ The Englishman’s Italian was impressive, with a strong southern accent. ‘Sorry I don’t have as romantic a name as you. Captain George Bright of the SOE.’ He put down the notebook and the maps and shook Sandro’s hand. He then removed the spectacles from his nose and rubbed his eyes, at the same time yawning. ‘I think I’ve been living the good life in Berne a little too long. I’m completely exhausted after walking for a couple of days.’
They talked for quarter of an hour and Sandro learned something about George Bright’s life. He had not been too far wrong about his pre-war occupation. He had, in fact, been a lecturer at a small college in the south of England, married with one child, a girl of ten whom he had not seen for almost a year and whom he obviously missed more than words could express. It was easy to tell just how much he missed her from the look that entered his eyes when he showed Sandro a photograph of her – a blonde, curly-haired child with a smiling face: ‘Smile for Daddy a long way away,’ he could hear voices saying on the other side of the lens.
Eventually, Luigi stirred himself from his conversation. Throwing a piece of rabbit bone down on the fire and wiping his greasy lips with the sleeve of his coat, he announced that it was time they set off, so that they could get in a couple of hours’ walking before darkness fell on the mountains. They made their farewells and left.
They walked in silence, Luigi leading, the Englishman in the middle and Sandro bringing up the rear. After a couple of hours, they stopped for the night beneath a rocky outcrop, which sheltered them from the slight drizzle that had begun to fall. After eating some cold meat that they had brought with them, they lay down to sleep as best they could, surrounded by the mist that had begun to envelop the mountains.
Next morning, as Sandro rolled his blanket and tied it to his rucksack, Luigi came over to him, drinking from a pewter hip flask.
‘Ach!’ he shivered as the liquid hit the back of his throat. ‘Want some?’ He held the flask out to Sandro.
‘No thanks, Falcone.’ Sandro had grown to hate this habit of drinking grappa to kick-start the day. It only made his head fuzzier and it upset his stomach.
‘You know, I’ve been thinking, lad.’ Luigi wiped his mouth after taking another hefty slug from the flask. ‘In this weather the Germans aren’t going to be out in the hills.’ He looked out across the valley, or rather, he looked in that direction, but the mist and the relentless drizzle that accompanied it, meant that he could see little but a hanging greyness that clothed the entire valley. ‘I really don’t think there’s any need for you to come any further.’
Sandro was confused. ‘Why? What do you mean, Falcone?’
‘I mean, we’re not far from your village. Why don’t you go and visit your mother, see if she’s alright?’ He smiled. ‘I can manage the remainder of this journey on my own. We’re only about fifteen miles from the meeting place. We should be there in about four or five hours, if the Englishman can keep up.’ He sneered in the direction of Captain Bright, who sat on the edge of a rock, wiping his glasses with a grubby handkerchief. ‘And I do know where I’m going.’
‘But, no. It wouldn’t be safe, Falcone.’ Sandro was elated and reluctant to argue too vehemently in favour of staying with Luigi and the Englishman. The thought of seeing his mother and maybe even Angela, filled him with anticipation and no small amount of guilt that Luigi was giving him permission to once again wrap his arms around his wife.
‘Oh, of course, it would be safe. In fact, it might even be safer without you. One less pair of boots blundering through the undergrowth might make less noise. Go! Go and see your mamma. And enjoy some home cooking. That, Lupo, is an order from your comandante!’
A huge smile creased Luigi’s features and he laughed, slapping Sandro on the back and knocking the wind out of his lungs.
Indeed, it was wonderful to be back in his own house with his mother busying herself around the range on the fire-place, cooking for him as if that was the purpose for which she had been put on the earth. She had cried when she saw him and threw her arms around him.
Later, towards midnight, he stood outside, leaning against the wall of the house, blowing the smoke from the last cigarette of the day into the night. The mist had cleared as the day had progressed and the night was now clear, with a three-quarter moon illuminating the village below his mother’s house and making the shadows of the far side of the valley just discernible.
He was thinking of the detour he would make tomorrow to visit Angela on the way back to the camp – Luigi had told him he did not have to be there until nightfall. His heart thumped against the wall of his chest in anticipation of stroking her skin and of feeling her warm, moist breath drying on his face.
Suddenly, however, he was stirred from his dreaming by a sound emanating from the trees to the right of the house. His body stiffened. It could be a deer or a stray dog, but there was the unmistakable sound of twigs cracking underfoot. His rifle was inside the house, he was full
y illuminated by moonlight and, consequently, there was little he could do as the sounds came closer.
A shape emerged from the trees and Sandro awaited others to join it, fully expecting this to be a German patrol, alerted to the fact that there was a partisan in the vicinity. Already playing in his mind were questions: how could they know? Who had told them? What would happen to Mamma?
‘Sandro!’ The voice was lenten and hoarse. ‘Sandro! It’s me … Luigi …’ The shape then crumpled to the ground amongst the leaves that had lain there since autumn. His father would normally have cleared them, but by the time autumn had arrived he had been dying and the leaves had remained there throughout the winter, a reminder of his absence.
Sandro threw his cigarette down and ran towards the dark, fallen shape of Luigi.
‘Luigi! What’s happened?’ Sandro cried, and looking around, he asked ‘Where’s the Englishman?’ Sandro helped him up and, putting Luigi’s arm around his shoulder, he half-carried and half-dragged him into the house.
‘Mamma! Mamma!’ She emerged from the next room, clad in a night-dress, a frightened look clouding her face. He said urgently, ‘Mamma! It’s my comandante. He’s been hurt … shot!’ He was looking at Luigi’s shoulder. The whole right side of his body was shiny with blood, as if he had dipped his arm in a vat of wine. But the hole in his coat showed where the bullet had entered, a similar hole on the other side showing that, fortunately, it had also exited. ‘Quick, Mamma, he’s lost a lot of blood.’ His mother put a pot of water on the fire as Sandro removed Luigi’s coat and tore his shirt at the shoulder to get at the wound. Luigi’s face was drained of all colour and he was shaking, as if chilled. ‘He’s in shock, Mamma. We need to keep him warm.’
His mother busied herself with cloths and boiling water as Luigi drifted in and out of consciousness.