The Long Path Home

by Ellen Lindseth

  “Vi . . .”

  The desperation in that one word tore at her.

  “Please.” Her voice broke, her endurance at its limit. “Just go away.”

  There was a taut silence. “All right, I’ll go. And I’ll tell Major Ricca it’s a green light.”

  Her eyes flew open at the tone of finality in his voice. “Will I see you again?”

  He shook his head. “My role in the mission is over. I was supposed to head out this afternoon to rejoin my unit.”

  “But you’re still here?”

  “I asked to stay, hoping to talk you out of tonight.” His gaze touched on her face and then stayed as if memorizing it. “But having failed that, I guess I also wanted to say goodbye.”

  Her heart squeezed, the pain making it hard to breathe. “Goodbye, then.”

  He nodded, hesitated, and then turned away.

  You don’t forgive yourself . . .

  His accusation had hurt. But it was true, if she was honest with herself.

  And she also wasn’t the only one with that failing, she realized.

  “Ansel, what was your wife’s name again?”

  He stopped but didn’t turn around. “Clarice. Why?”

  “You can’t keep blaming yourself for Clarice’s actions,” she blurted out before she could think better of it. “You know that, right? She was the one at fault. No one else.”

  He was silent a moment and then glanced over his shoulder at her. “And I would say the same to you. That Robert fellow? He was a grown man, Violet. I wish you could get that through your head. He knew better than to touch you, but he did anyway. He was the one who failed, not you. He and he alone.”

  He was the one who failed . . .

  She blinked as the words sank in. Something shifted in her soul, and it was as if a strap had been cut, and a weight on her conscience dropped away. Not all, but enough she felt dizzy from it. All these years she had shouldered the blame alone, thinking she had orchestrated her own seduction. Not once had she questioned Robert’s culpability. Nor had anyone else. Not even Sal.

  Why was that?

  Ansel drew a deep breath. “I gotta go. Be safe, you hear?”

  At a loss for words and unable to do the one thing he wanted, she bit her lip as he turned and walked out of the theater . . . and out of her life.

  Chapter 32

  “Are you feeling all right?” Gertie asked Vi as they came off the stage, the applause still in full force behind them. “You look really pale. Maybe you should skip greeting the soldiers tonight.”

  “No, I’m fine.” Vi called on the last of her acting reserves to fake a smile. “I didn’t get much sleep last night, and I’m starting to feel it is all.”

  Gertie’s brow remained furrowed with worry. “Okay. But if you’re getting ill, you really should go back to the hotel.”

  Guilt tugged at Vi’s already-frayed nerves. Gertie’s concern for her was so sweet and yet so misplaced. “I’m fine. Truly.”

  Just worried about tonight’s mission, she thought.

  No matter how blasé she tried to be on the outside, inside she worried that the mission wouldn’t go well. That she would never again play in this theater, or in Rome, or even in a USO show.

  A sense of nostalgia descended over her as the unit gathered backstage, readying themselves to meet well-wishers. She found herself trying to absorb every detail of the theater as she waited. The people, the sights, the sounds, the smells—even the bad ones like stale sweat—all seemed suddenly precious. This next half hour among these dear people might well be her last. That knowledge bade her to cry even as she prepared herself to smile.

  Because the soldiers filing backstage deserved it.

  A gentle tap on her shoulder startled her.

  “Signorina,” a woman said softly. It was the redheaded partisan from the other night. She was dressed in a uniform similar to the one Vi usually wore, only without any patches or pins, her hair pulled into a smooth twist. “It is time.”

  Vi glanced anxiously toward Sue and then Mr. Stuart. They were already meeting the first of the soldiers and paying her no attention. In fact, in a stroke of good fortune, the entire cast was similarly engaged.

  As unobtrusively as possible, she eased back toward the dressing rooms. The partisan stuck close, and once they were beyond prying eyes, she handed Vi a satchel. “I hope this will fit. I had to guess your size.”

  Vi hurriedly opened the satchel, and a gorgeous, sleek sheath of a dress in rich gold silk fell out. She held it up and all but purred at the deep vee in the back and the single chain of rhinestones at the top to hold the shoulders together.

  Sr. Conti would never know what hit him.

  “It was my sister’s,” the redhead said. “She sang at Riccardo’s nightclub before the war. She was very good.”

  Vi paused, catching the use of past tense. “Your sister is . . . ?”

  “Not dead.” A deep sadness shadowed the partisan’s light-brown eyes. “But not alive, either. She was raped by German soldiers. Many times. So she lives, but doesn’t. She used to sing but now doesn’t even talk.”

  “I’m so sorry!”

  The partisan shrugged. “It’s the way of war, yes? Before I had no politics. Now I live only to see the Nazis driven from Italy.”

  “I can’t even imagine . . .” If Fern had been brutally raped to the point of no longer speaking, Vi would be consumed with thoughts of revenge. No, not just thoughts . . . acts of revenge.

  Vi reached out to the partisan and hesitantly took the woman’s hand. “Thank you for loaning me her dress. I won’t fail you, or her. I promise.”

  The woman took a deep breath. “Grazie, but you must hurry. Sr. Conti is waiting for you, and he is not a patient man.”

  Catching the hint, Vi quickly peeled out of her dance outfit and hung it up with care, on the off chance she would be back. No, that was defeatist talk. She would be back. To think otherwise would have her sobbing, and she couldn’t afford the waste of time or energy. Not now.

  Sternly telling herself to stay on task, she slipped the cool silk dress over her head.

  Thankfully, Vi and the partisan’s sister were not far off in size. It was a tad snug over her bust and hips but not as bad as it could’ve been.

  Appreciation lit the redhead’s eyes when Vi turned around. “Very nice. Sora would approve. You look like what Americans say, ‘a hundred bucks.’”

  Vi smoothed the fabric over her hips and felt another twinge of nerves. “While a hundred bucks is swell, I’d rather look like that ton of gold.”

  “Or at least a map leading to it.” The partisan handed Vi a pair of earrings, the paste emeralds set off by diamond rhinestones.

  Putting the earrings on, Vi eyed the rest of her ensemble in the mirror. It wasn’t perfect—her dance shoes weren’t nearly fancy enough—but it would do. As long as Sr. Conti had a pulse, she would succeed.

  Together they sneaked out of the dressing room and through the door leading to the alley behind the theater.

  “Riccardo will drop you off at Sr. Conti’s. There, Minta, who is also one of us, will take you upstairs,” the woman said as they picked their way past puddles and trash. “After Sr. Conti greets you, please ask for dinner. He may be reluctant, so please insist.”

  They had reached the end of the alley, and the partisan peered down the dark street. “When Minta brings the food, Sr. Conti will be distracted, and that will be your chance to fix his drink. You will have forty-five minutes, complete, to find the map. Then Riccardo will take you back to the hotel.”

  “Why only forty-five minutes?” Vi asked, inwardly calculating how much time would be eaten up waiting for the drops to take effect. “I might need more if the map isn’t on him.”

  The woman glanced at Vi, her expression unreadable in the dark. “We were asked not to keep you out past midnight. Signorina Rossi will distract your superiors until then, but longer than that, she could not promise.”

  “Luciana
is back?” Vi stared at the woman.

  “Sì. She could not get Sr. Conti to see her, so she returns to your unit tonight. Sergeant Danger did not wish you to get in trouble, so she is helping to blind the USO to your disappearance.”

  Vi hadn’t even thought to cover her tracks tonight, she had been so worried about the particulars of the mission. Thank goodness for Ansel! And Luciana, too. That two people she greatly admired would go out of their way to protect her did her spirits a world of good. She wouldn’t let them down, even if she had to rip open every seam of Sr. Conti’s underwear.

  A delivery truck appeared out of the shadows, the engine growl echoing off the surrounding buildings. Vi’s heart leaped with excitement and nerves.

  “Ah, here is Riccardo. Quick, you get into the front. I will see you later.”

  The truck stopped at the curb in front of them. The idling engine seemed impossibly loud in the dark silence.

  “Signorina Heart,” a man called softly after popping the door open for her. “Buonasera. Get in, please. I am Riccardo.”

  Vi took a deep breath and then hopped in as best she could in the tight sheath. “Buonasera, Riccardo.”

  He watched her with pale eyes that seemed older than the rest of his angular face. His smile, though, was genuine and warm as he nodded in greeting.

  The woman closed the door behind Vi. “Good luck, Signorina Heart. In bocca al lupo! ‘Into the wolf’s mouth,’ as we say.”

  “May it die,” Vi said back, giving the correct response to the Italian good luck saying. Thank goodness for Marcie, or she would’ve been at a complete loss.

  Riccardo pulled away from the curb, and soon the theater was lost in the shadows that shrouded the streets each night. Vi wondered if she would ever see it again.

  “How are you feeling tonight?” Riccardo asked her in surprisingly clear English as he turned onto the wide avenue leading to the outskirts of town. “Nervous?”

  “A little.” Actually more than a little, which meant it was time for a distraction. “Do all the Roman partisans speak English?”

  “No.” Riccardo shifted gears to get a bit more speed. Not that Vi thought it advisable. But the partisan drove with complete confidence despite the lack of light, celestial or otherwise. She decided he must have nerves of steel. “Only some. For instance, I owned a nightclub in Rome before the war. We had visitors from all over the world, so I thought it a good idea to learn many languages.

  “Alessandra, the woman who helped you tonight, she was a nanny for diplomats. So she has knowledge of English too.”

  “She said her sister used to perform at your club.”

  “Yes, Sora. She was magnifica. A wonder. When she was injured, Allie and I swore revenge. And Allie, she is magnifica as well.”

  “She is,” Vi agreed, wondering if there was more than a working relationship between the two. She hoped they would both survive the war.

  Riccardo slowed as they went through an old stone arch. They were leaving ancient Rome. “Did Allie tell you that you have less than an hour?”

  “She did. Do you have any idea what the map looks like? How big is it? What is it printed on?”

  “I cannot help you with that. The person to ask would’ve been your Sergeant Danger. He is the one who has been chasing it all across Italy.”

  “So I heard.”

  “We know it was being carried by a German courier through the Alps, so perhaps not so big. And the general location is not a secret, so it needn’t carry a lot of information.”

  “Ansel mentioned as much. What he didn’t explain is why the partisans don’t just search the bunker now that it’s in Allied hands?”

  “Because it is not small, this bunker. The tunnels run for many kilometers, and Kesselring destroyed many rooms before leaving. We can dig them out, to be sure. But to do so without a map, we might as well tear down the whole mountain, which would take years.”

  “I see.” She imagined all the ways such information could be conveyed and tried not to be dismayed. Then she frowned. “What was Kesselring hoping this map would accomplish if the bunker is in Allied hands?”

  “He was sending his friend, a Swiss banker, to recover it, under a false name, no doubt. Sergeant Danger said Kesselring is one of many who think the Third Reich will lose. Perhaps he hopes to retire in South America as a wealthy man.”

  “But wouldn’t moving gold on Kesselring’s behalf violate Switzerland’s neutrality?”

  “Who is to decide?” Riccardo stopped the truck and cut the engine. “Swiss banks are open to everyone, and in truth, many Swiss are sympathetic to their German cousins’ plight. And then there is greed, which makes men do strange things.”

  He reached into his jacket and removed something. In the shadowy darkness it was difficult to tell what, other than that it was small. He held it out. Hesitantly, she took it from him. It was a glass vial. “The liquid you requested. We were not able to get much. The hospital is very careful with its chemicals, given the war.”

  “I don’t need much.” Vi slipped the vial into her handbag next to her passport. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. If you retrieve the map, all of Italy will be in your debt.”

  A door opened in the building next to them, the dim light spilling into the street.

  “Ah, there is Minta. She will take you upstairs. I will be back when you are through.”

  The slight woman, outlined by the light, made a hurry-up gesture. Not wanting to start off on the wrong foot, Vi climbed out of the truck as gracefully as she could, given her dress, and hurried toward the light.

  There was no more time to worry about the war, or Ansel, or anyone else. All that mattered now was the next half hour’s performance. She was as prepared as she could be for a role she had asked for. A role she had spent the last few years honing the skills for without knowing it.

  And now it was showtime.

  Chapter 33

  “Forgive me for not sending my driver to pick you up,” Sr. Conti said as he escorted Vi into his living room. “But your note said you needed to be discreet.”

  “I do, so there’s nothing to forgive.” She gave him a dazzling smile, wanting to stop any further discussion of how she had gotten there. Then, to further distract him, she turned her attention to the lavish decorations of the room. People, wealthy or poor, always enjoyed having their belongings remarked upon, at least in her experience. “Your apartments are lovely!”

  It wasn’t a lie. Minta had led her past several rooms, all with high ceilings and tile floors, on her way here. More oil paintings than she could count hung on the walls. The crystal light fixtures sparkled as if all dust had been banned from the place. The garnet-red carpet that ran the length of the hall, likely the cheapest thing in the apartment, was as plush as a mink coat.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Sr. Conti said, clearly charmed by both her smile and her appreciation of his taste. “But none of its beauty can compare to you, Signorina Heart. Or may I call you Virginia?”

  “I prefer Vi.”

  “And I prefer Stefano.” He captured her hand and brought it to his lips. She shivered slightly as his mustache tickled the back of her knuckles, but at least the kiss itself was dry, polite.

  He let her hand go and smiled. “I’m so glad you decided to come tonight. Would you like a drink?”

  “That would be lovely.” Then she remembered her instructions. “What I would really like, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, is dinner. I’m always too nervous to eat before the show, which leaves me starving afterward.”

  “But of course! It would be my pleasure. Let me ring the cook.”

  “It doesn’t have to be fancy,” she said quickly, not wanting to use up too much of her time. “Perhaps some bread and cheese?”

  “No, no. For a special guest, I provide much better.” He walked over to the door and pressed a small button on the wall. Someone knocked lightly and then opened the door. It was Minta. Sr. Conti told her something in rap
id Italian, to which she nodded and then left, closing the door behind her.

  “There, it is done.” He gestured toward the sofa. “Please, sit. I will make you a drink. I have gin or perhaps some wine . . . ?”

  “Gin is fine.” She perched on the edge of the sofa and set her clutch down beside her. Actually, gin would be better than fine. It would be perfect. The bitter spirit would cover the taste of the knockout drops splendidly. “And ice if you have it.”

  “That is not possible, I am sorry.” He poured a splash of clear liquid into each glass. “Has anyone ever said you look like the actress in Gone with the Wind?”

  “Vivien Leigh?” She couldn’t help but be flattered, in spite of herself.

  “Sì, that one. I thought so the moment I saw you.” He added a few drops of what she guessed to be quinine to the drinks, which given the prevalence of malaria in Italy wasn’t an awful idea. He swirled the glasses to mix it and then brought them over to the sofa. “For you.”

  “Thank you.” She took a tiny sip and barely repressed a grimace. To say it was raw would be an understatement. To be polite, she took a second sip, and then lowered the glass to her lap. “Signor—”

  “Stefano, please.”

  “Stefano . . .” She licked her lips and was rewarded by a sudden gleam in his eyes. It was all the opening she needed. While a seduction wasn’t strictly needed for tonight’s performance, lust could blind him to a lot and make him less suspicious of her actions.

  Sorting through various stage personas with an unerring feel for her audience, Vi tried to decide which one would get the best results. Given the attention he paid to his grooming and the blatant masculinity of his posture, she picked cultured and feminine.

  Letting her posture relax into something more curved and sinuous, she leaned back on the sofa. Her hope was to undermine his ability to think by provoking his baser nature. Loose lips weren’t always female ones. With a little coaxing, men could turn just as chatty as a teenage girl.

  “Stefano,” she said again, running her fingertip along the hem of her neckline, drawing his gaze to the swell of her breasts. “I hope you don’t think I’m old fashioned, but I like to get to know a fellow before I . . . well, before we become close friends.”