by Gordon Kerr
Sandro breathed deeply, raising a hand to a nearby beam for support. He had known it would not be easy to kidnap a fully fit man when he had only one useful arm to work with, but he had succeeded and now he had some work to do before Weber awoke.
He was out for longer than Sandro had anticipated. Perhaps he had hit him too hard; there had certainly been a great deal of blood flowing from the wound, but, of course, there was little that could be scientific about a blow to the back of the head with a pistol butt.
Weber’s eyes eventually opened. His first feeling was one of severe pain, at the back of his head where it lay on the wooden floorboards of this room he was in. His second was one of confusion. Where was he? All he could see above him were the planks of a wooden roof with sunlight seeping between them where it was in need of repair. There was no sound from outside, even though it was evidently daytime. His third feeling was cold. He was very cold. He was wearing no clothes. And he was unable to move his arms or his legs. They were restrained in some way.
He turned his head painfully to the right and saw that his wrist had been tied with a thick rope that was secured to a beam. His left hand and his ankles were similarly tied. Sandro had prepared these ropes earlier with some difficulty, given his disabled arm.
There was a sound from the hatch and Sandro’s head appeared at the top of the ladder. He had been checking on the German every fifteen minutes or so.
‘Teufel!’ spat Weber, followed by a stream of German, his anger almost making him choke. Then, in Italian, ‘Why don’t you just kill me? Why go to this trouble?’ There was a break in his tirade as he strained to lift his head to get a good look at Sandro. ‘Who are you anyway?’
‘Ah, you don’t recognise me, Obersturmführer Weber?’ Sandro climbed up through the hatch and leaned on a roof beam, picking at his nails with a knife.
‘No, I don’t believe …’ He stared hard at Sandro’s face.
‘Perhaps you will remember if I ask you to recall a morning about ten or so weeks back, up in the mountains, not far from Monte Santo. There were seven of us.’
A look of sudden understanding and a small smile crossed Weber’s face.
‘Ah, I see it’s coming back to you now. You must remember me, Weber. I do look slightly different, I suppose, to the way I looked before you had some fun with your pistol butt on my face.’
Weber laughed before his head fell back to the floorboards, a look of sheer exhaustion filling his eyes.
‘Oh, just kill me, why don’t you? Get it over with.’
‘No, no, no. That wouldn’t do at all. At least, not until you tell me something, or confirm what I think I already know.’
‘Oh, anything. You know, I don’t care anymore, about the war, about Hitler, about Germany. I hardly exist as it is, so what do I care about any of it. I have done things I never thought I would be capable of. We all have … even you.
‘There are times, you know, when I find it all overwhelming. It’s often just before the sun comes up over the mountains after another sleepless night. It suddenly strikes me, what I have become in such a short time. Do you ever feel that, my friend? Are you as ashamed as I am?’ He looked Sandro straight in the eye, abject desolation clouding his eyes for a moment.
Sandro looked away from the German’s gaze. ‘I don’t have as much to be ashamed of as you do, my friend.’ He spat the word out with hatred. ‘Enough of your regret. I want one simple answer to one simple question. Who betrayed us? Who told you where we were going to be that night?’
‘Oh, is that all you need to know? That’s easy! I was a bit surprised at first though, but not when I found out why he did it. You are all so damned emotional, you Italians. You are swayed too much by your feelings. The trouble with Germans and with Nazis, in particular – no, for your information, I am not a Nazi, never have been. I pretend so that I can get through this damned war. The trouble with them is they are not at all swayed by feelings. As you know, I am sure, they see them as something of a weakness. Anyway, your betrayer was a very angry man; he was made unstable by his anger, I would say.’
‘But who …’
‘Well, I won’t waste your time. It was Il Falcone. The one the children sing songs about in the streets of Sondrio – if they only knew! In the beginning he was trying to trade information in exchange for the return of his wife and child who had been sent to a camp in Germany.’
Sandro’s heart skipped a beat.
‘But there was nothing we could do. They were long gone and probably already dead by the time he came to us. No one survives in those camps very long.’ His eyes were dead as he uttered the words, as if he had shut himself off from all of the suffering they held. ‘So, he asked who betrayed them. We told him it was one of you, but we did not know exactly who. He then swore that he would take his revenge and told us about your monthly meeting to replenish your stocks of ammunition. Hey presto, we made your acquaintance and here we are you and I, having such a fine time together.’
‘And Luigi … Il Falcone, what became of him?’
‘We gave him safe passage into Switzerland. I have no idea what he is doing now or even if he is still there.’ A silence settled between the two men. ‘But, hey, if that’s all you wanted to know, then put me out of my misery. Or let me go …’ He smiled. ‘No I suppose that’s not really on the cards, is it? After all, I did treat you all rather badly, didn’t I?’ He laughed, his body shaking in the flickering flame of the gas lamp. ‘The look on your comrades’ faces as they realised what I was going to do, as I pulled the pin out of the grenade. I’m fascinated by that moment, you know. The sudden realisation that it is all going to end. That the world will go on, but without you. That is the ultimate moment, don’t you think? The power to do that, to be instrumental in that … Magnificent in a way, eh?’
‘You’re insane, Weber.’ Sandro stood up straight. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like to be someone like you. People like you shouldn’t be walking the earth. The worst thing is you make your victims as evil as you. War is difficult enough, but it’s almost not enough for your kind. You have to invent new abominations, new cruelties all the time. And I do, too, in order to satisfy this overwhelming urge that I have to not just kill you, but to make you suffer as much as or even more than my comrades suffered. Perhaps I can enjoy that, as you call it, ultimate moment.’
‘Hmm, I am interested to know what you are going to do. Do tell me.’
‘No, I think I’ll let you use your imagination for a little while, Weber.’
With that, he stepped down into the hatchway and disappeared from view. The flickering light of the gas lamp animated the shadows of the beams and highlighted the limpid gleam of the German’s eyes as they stared blankly at the wooden ceiling.
The smell of the rancid meat that swilled in the bucket almost made Sandro gag as he pushed it ahead of him up the ladder with his one good arm. He had scoured the bins behind the only butcher’s shop in Sondrio that remained open.
‘Gott im Himmel, what is that?’ The acrid smell reached the German’s nostrils. ‘That smell alone is almost enough to kill a man!’
‘Sandro smiled. ‘Oh, don’t worry, there is much more than just that.’ He clambered up into the attic, picked up the bucket and approached the German. He raised the bucket about a foot above him and carefully upended its contents onto the naked body, making sure he covered most of his top half with the contents – fat and offal and a bloody liquid.
‘Bearrgh!’ the German gasped in disgust as a fresh and stronger wave of the nauseous stink invaded his senses and Sandro stepped quickly back to prevent any of the filthy substance coming into contact with his boots.
‘Oh, that is disgusting. Where did you get it? From your mother’s pantry? Is that the kind of filth you Italians are eating these days?’ He smiled, but his eyes were screwed up as the smell filled the room.
Sandro also smiled. But it was a smile of anticipation. He stepped back towards the hatch and lowered himself carefully d
own onto the ladder, briefly disappearing from view.
Again, with difficulty, he pushed a container up the ladder ahead of him. It was a wooden box, much more awkward and heavy than the bucket and its weight kept shifting as its contents seemed to move around inside.
‘Oh, I’d rather die than put up with this stink. Hurry up, get on …’ The German had become very animated, but then, all at once, was silenced as Sandro removed the top of the box and the scraping and scratching of clawed feet could be heard from within.
‘Oh, no, not that. Not that!’
Sandro put the box down and picked up a strip of elasticated cloth from the floor. He went over to Weber and wrapped it with difficulty around his head, gagging him. The Germans’ eyes pleaded with him all the while and he struggled violently, trying to loosen the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles.
Sandro returned to the box, Weber’s muffled cries behind him and set it on its side, allowing the twenty or so rats that were inside to spill out onto the floorboards. They emerged cautiously at first, their snouts twitching as they tried to acclimatise themselves to this new environment. The smell struck their senses immediately with the impact of a glass of whisky on a drunk, however, and they began hungrily to seek its source, skittering across the floor in every direction, climbing over each other in their filthy hysteria.
‘Oh, by the way, Weber,’ said Sandro, ‘They haven’t eaten anything for a couple of days. You should keep them going for a while though.’ He watched for a moment as the rats suddenly, as one, realised where the smell was emanating from. They turned and descended in a wave upon Weber’s body. The last thing Sandro looked at in the attic were Weber’s eyes, which were prised open in horror.
‘The ultimate moment, my friend, the ultimate moment.’ he said, before dropping down onto the ladder, pulling down the hatch door and fastening it above him. At the foot of the ladder he stopped for a moment. Above him he could hear the manic scratching of claws on the wood of the floorboards and the thumping of Weber’s terror-struck body as it flailed about as much as its restraints would allow.
Stepping out into the street, Sandro gulped lungfuls of fresh air and held onto the wall to steady himself. It was late afternoon by now and the clouds that had been obscuring the peaks of the mountains all day were beginning to break up. The heat of summer hung in the air now, seeping into the walls of the empty buildings around him.
He slept that night in a tiny woodcutter’s shelter in the hills just above Sondrio. He needed the smells of the hills in his nostrils, the scent of the earth and the trees to clear out the awful stink of the afternoon. He was almost delirious, however, and he could not clear out the memories. Luigi and Angela troubled his sleep all that short night. He would wake at regular intervals, lie there thinking of them and then drift into another brief period of restless slumber in which they would once more visit him in the many insane forms that his mind seemed capable of devising.
At the end of it, in the early morning, with the mist rolling down the sides of the hills towards the empty streets of Sondrio, he resolved to tell no one. Luigi had suffered enough and, anyway, he was gone and unlikely to be seen in this area again. Sleeping dogs should and would be allowed to lie. This war had already brought enough horror and death.
He stood up, rubbing his dead left arm, which throbbed gently, as it always did in the morning. He picked up his bag and without stopping to look back on the lands of his youth, limped off down the track that led to the south.
He took the first steps that began a journey that would take him far away from the Valtellina for a long time.
17
17 November 1999
Northern slopes
The Valtellina
North Italy
The silver BMW glinted in the sun as it disappeared around yet another bend in the road that clung to the side of the lake. A few miles further on, the road would climb away from the lakeside and become a modern highway, built a few years back as a conveyor belt for those who wanted to ski in Bormio. For decades before that, traffic would be strung for miles along the old road, moving at a snail’s pace. Now the shiny new autostrada cut through the mountains in long, dark, dripping tunnels, cutting journey times in half and bringing the Valtellina, and, more importantly, the ski slopes, within easy reach of the Milanesi whose shiny, high-powered chariots scornfully brushed aside local traffic and sped on to the north and west.
Helen had returned just as the ferry had disappeared from view and Michael had thrown down his opera glasses, grabbing her by the wrist and shouting ‘Where are you parked?’ He had dragged her out of the hotel, her breathless questions unanswered.
‘Where are we going, Michael?’ she shouted at him as he pulled the car keys from her hand and started the car, which was parked in the street that ran along the side of the hotel.
‘Hang on,’ he answered, negotiating the lights at the corner of the promenade and speeding away from town along the coast road that led to the north.
‘I saw Pedrini … on the ferry,’ he said at last, breathlessly, snatching at the gears as he threw the car around a bend. ‘I’m hoping he’s headed for Verdanno. If we go like the clappers we can get there before him.’
They reached the small lakeside town of Verdanno with time to spare. As he parked the car under the plane trees that lined the car park next to the ferry slipway, they could see the boat ploughing steadily through the water, the thrum of its engines audible from a distance through their opened windows.
A policeman stood by the slipway, talking to a man who was ready with a rope to moor the ferry when it arrived. They laughed at something, relaxed and happy in the warmth of the early afternoon. Michael instinctively slid down his seat. He presumed his photograph was being carried by every policeman in Italy. Helen looked at him nervously, but the policeman was not interested in anything beyond his conversation.
Once the ferry had moored at the jetty and the metal ramp had come down, the car engines started up and they began to move forward. As the BMW manoeuvred its way up the ramp, the window on the passenger side came down and there, visible for all to see, sat Vito Pedrini, sniffing the air as if it belonged to him.
‘It’s him, alright,’ hissed Michael, turning the key in the ignition and swinging the car round into place a couple of cars behind the BMW, which stopped at the junction with the main road, awaiting a change in the traffic lights. It then swung left away from Verdanno and followed the curve of the lake to the north and onto the autostrade, the passing scenery reflected in its dark, tinted windows.
At the eastern tip of the lake the road curves away into the beginnings of the Valtellina, at right angles to the Valchiavenna, which runs northwards towards the Swiss border. If you do not take the road to Switzerland, then you find yourself heading in an easterly direction towards Sondrio and then, further on, the winter sports resort of Bormio.
The BMW sped on into the Valtellina, on a normal, two-lane road now, which made it difficult to follow Pedrini as he overtook other cars moving too slowly for him only to find another slow vehicle in front.
Modern villas spewed down the valley side to the road. Vineyards stitched the slopes here and there and smoke drifted intermittently from chimneys into the sky. Michael knew what it smelled like, the air here. It was scented with burnt wood and it possessed the memories of many long, hard winters.
He drove on in silence, concentrating on not losing Pedrini. About ten miles into the valley he began to pass familiar landmarks and then he spied his brother-in-law’s house, overlooking the road from the valley side. He imagined life carrying on as normal inside, Giovanna bustling around the kids, trying to persuade them to do homework, the television booming from the corner of the living room, as if playing for a houseful of people who were hard of hearing; he imagined dust settling on Rosa’s things hanging in the wardrobe of the bedroom they always shared when they visited.
And then he was passing the spot where it had happened, where all this began �
�� the spot where she was struck by the blue car. It was the first time he had been back here since the unimaginable horror of that day. The thought of that particular moment, running towards her broken body, filled his head for an instant before he came upon a tractor moving at about ten miles an hour and was forced to brake hard.
‘Overtake, Michael! Overtake or we’ll lose him!’ Helen shouted, leaning forward as far as her seat belt would allow, attempting to peer around the tractor and follow the BMW’s progress.
‘Okay, okay, I’m doing my best!’ he retorted, irritated that she did not think that was exactly what he was trying to do.
The road cleared in front of the tractor and he crunched down into third gear, pulled out and overtook it.
Ahead of them the road was straight and empty. There was no sign of the BMW.
‘We’ve lost him!’ Helen banged her fist down in frustration on the dashboard in front of her.
‘Damn! Bloody tractor!’ he cursed, looking around for side roads Pedrini might have taken. ‘There!’ he shouted, almost causing a huge pile-up as he turned sharp left into a side road.
‘Where?’ asked Helen, covering her eyes with her hand to obscure the sun’s glare. And then they both saw it together, the BMW, emerging from a clump of trees, climbing a zigzag mountain road about two hundred feet above them.
Michael put his foot down and sped off in pursuit, comfortable in the knowledge that such roads did not offer the driver too many options. He could drive at a safe distance and still remain in touch with his quarry.
‘There’s nothing up here, you know,’ Helen observed several minutes later, a map spread on her knees in front of her. ‘After that last village it carries on for a few miles and then peters out into nothing as far as I can make out.’
‘Strange,’ said Michael, once again catching a glimpse of the car up above them.