Tell Me No Truths

by Gill Vickery

  ‘Why Tania? She was only a little girl.’

  ‘She just happened to be with Bruno when Marco attacked him and he had to kill her to prevent her from identifying him.’

  ‘That’s horrible, killing a child!’

  ‘She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  Nico knew he and Jade were thinking the same thing: Gaetano’s niece had been at the farmhouse at the wrong time. He hurried on with the story: ‘Marco’s so full of deranged hatred that he’s blind to everything except vengeance. He expects Semiramide to agree with him but she flies at him screaming, “How could you kill a child and an innocent man?” She says she’s going to tell Alessandro . . .’

  ‘No!’

  ‘That’s right – Marco kills Semiramide.’

  ‘Does Alessandro find out? Well, course he does, I mean how does he find out?’

  This was the difficult part, Nico thought, the part where the story turned from Semiramide to the final victim in the series.

  ‘After Semiramide’s murder Alessandro deduces who the latest victim is going to be: a Black Brigade boy who’d betrayed his best friend because the girl they both loved had rejected him and was going to marry the best friend.’

  Nico ran through the rest of the plot. It mirrored Roberto’s story almost exactly.

  Jade huddled in her seat. Nico reached over and took her hand. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes.’ She squeezed his hand briefly and pulled hers away. ‘What happened to the Black Brigade boy?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What? Don’t the partisans take revenge?’

  That had puzzled Nico too, at first. ‘Alessandro prevents the killing of the old ex-Black Brigader, and rounds up Marco and the other murderers. The book ends where Alessandro thinks about vengeance and how it turns in on itself until innocent people like Tania become victims. It’s the end of the murders and the end of the Alessandro books altogether. I think E. J. Holm is saying there’s a time for payback to stop.’

  Jade chewed at her lip. ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How did E. J. Holm – how did Mrs Baxendall, if she is E. J. Holm – get to know so much about the story? And why write it?’

  ‘I suppose she wrote it because it’s a good story; on the other hand, how she got to know about it . . .’ Nico spread his hands wide. ‘We know she’s friendly with the Signora who’s friendly with Gaetano – perhaps he told Mrs Bax. That’s the sort of thing I want to ask when I go and see her.’

  Nico’s phone weebled. ‘It’s from Mum. She wants us to come back ASAP.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She doesn’t say.’ Nico put out his hand again and this time Jade took it and held onto it. He pulled her to her feet and slipped his arm round her. Outside they walked along quietly. ‘What are you thinking?’ Nico asked.

  ‘The letter from Elena – I was wondering, is it in the book too?’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘It’s not exactly the same story as my nonno’s then?’

  ‘No, and don’t forget, we’re talking about a novel we know is different from the facts – for a start the fictional Roberto is still alive and in Tuscany. Besides that, maybe E. J. Holm – Mrs Bax – didn’t know about the letter and is guessing what happened to the real Roberto – who knows?’

  Nico’s phone weebled again. ‘Apparently the Signora wants to see us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mum doesn’t say that either. Let’s get back or she’ll keep harassing us.’

  Jade agreed and they walked the rest of the way lost in their own thoughts.

  When Jade knocked on the Signora’s door she came out immediately, elegantly dressed in black set off with a colourful scarf in green, red and white. ‘I have hired a taxi for the afternoon. We will go first to a cafe in the Piazza della Repubblica.’

  OK, Jade thought, apparently we don’t have any choice.

  The taxi dropped them off close to a grand, glossy cafe where a waiter hurried over. ‘You would like a seat?’ he asked the Signora in a deferential manner.

  ‘We will sit outside,’ she said in English.

  ‘Of course.’ The waiter was fascinated by the Signora’s scarf. Jade didn’t think there was anything particularly special about it apart from a central motif of an eagle, which seemed a bit out of character for an elderly lady.

  ‘I find you the good table.’

  The waiter wafted them to a seat bathed in sunshine and shaded by a white umbrella. He took their order and they made small talk until the drinks arrived.

  ‘Why are we here?’ Jade asked bluntly. ‘Are you going to tell us more about Nonno?’

  The Signora put her cup down delicately. ‘In a way.’ She did one of her abrupt changes and smiled at Jade. ‘You are from Derby, no?’

  ‘Yes.’ And what’s that got to do with anything? Jade wondered.

  ‘I did some investigations and discovered that during the five years of the Second World War, seventy-four people were killed in Derby and over three hundred wounded. During the four weeks of the battle to liberate Florence, two hundred and five partisans were killed and four hundred wounded. That is to say, one hundred and thirty-one more people died here in those few weeks than died in Derby during the whole of the war.’

  Jade didn’t know what the Signora expected her to say; there was no point in saying ‘sorry’ because this time the tragedy had nothing to do with her.

  ‘During the German occupation of Florence the resistance movement here in the north harassed the enemy constantly. There were consequences. A special police force was set up, the Banda Carità. It was named after the chief of Police, Mario Carità. He had begun his life’s work in Milan when he was just fifteen years old, assassinating those who did not share his political beliefs.’

  Fifteen! My age, Jade thought, and a year younger than Nico.

  ‘Carità’s methods of torture were feared even more than those of the German secret police. The partisans decided something had to be done to stop him.’ The Signora paused to sip at her coffee. She put the cup down without even the suggestion of a tremor and carried on with her story in a matter-of-fact, emotionless voice.

  ‘This cafe was popular with German officers and high-ranking Italian fascists including Mario Carità. It was decided to assassinate him here at eight o’clock, the cocktail hour, on 8th February 1944. A young couple was selected to carry out the killing – Antonio Ignesti and a young woman of eighteen . . .’

  Was this young woman the Signora? Jade wouldn’t have been surprised by anything that the steely old lady had done.

  ‘Her name was Tosca Buccarelli, Toschina to her friends. For several weeks Toschina and Antonio came here, pretending to be an engaged couple. They noted Carità’s movements and where his favourite table was. A partisan, who worked as a waiter here, fixed a hook under the table next to Carità’s usual seat.

  ‘The date arrived. Although the cafe was crowded, Toschina and Antonio managed to sit next to Carità’s group. Toschina took a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper from her handbag. It was a bomb. Antonio lit a cigarette and used the match to light the fuse. Toschina fumbled for the hook under the table and dropped the bomb. She picked it up, pinched out the fuse and put it back in her bag.’

  Jade couldn’t even begin to imagine putting a half-lit bomb in her bag. ‘Was it safe?’

  ‘Yes, but a German officer had seen what happened and raised the alarm. Though Toschina managed to slip away Antonio was detained. He was in poor health – she knew he would never survive interrogation and she turned back. In the following confusion Antonio escaped. This time, Toschina did not.’

  The Signora finished the last sip of her coffee, her grip still steady.

  ‘What happened next?’ Jade asked. ‘To Toschina.’

  ‘She was
taken to the House of Sorrow.’ The Signora stood. ‘That is where we are going next.’

  I learned later that during the massacre at the farmhouse, Gaetano’s father was dragged into the courtyard and shot dead in front of his family. They were loaded onto a truck and never seen again. Henryk and a partisan were also killed, as was a Black Brigade member. Two partisans and three escaped prisoners of war who’d joined our band of resistance fighters were taken prisoner and executed later.

  In the time it took for the Black Brigade to achieve their ‘victory’, Gaetano, Ilaria and others in our band had got Elena to safety and me into hiding. A local doctor did his best to patch me up temporarily, and partisans supported me along the Freedom Trail to the Allies who then took over my care.

  I know this part of the story from talking to survivors of the massacre long after the war had ended. I was also told that the boy who shot me was Roberto, the friend turned traitor. He had decided to sever the ties of childhood loyalties at last; his political beliefs overrode his personal affection for his foster family and he chose to alert the Black Brigade. It was bad luck that we were all gathered together – such an easy target – on that fateful Easter Sunday.

  I asked Ilaria if she remembered what Roberto had said immediately before he shot me. She told me that in the noise and confusion of the fighting she couldn’t make out the words.

  Now I’m writing this memoir of my time with the partisans and my small part in their victory. I hope that in writing it, I may even recover the last, fugitive memory that has eluded me for so many years.

  CHAPTER XX

  THE TAXI STOPPED in a side street of affluent-looking houses and flats. They got out on a corner facing an elegant apartment block in shades of grey.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ the Signora asked, waving at the tall building.

  Jade didn’t really have an opinion. She’d never thought about architecture at all until she came to Florence – it was just an ordinary block of flats to her.

  Nico was looking at it thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed. ‘It’s strange. At first sight it looks imposing – those two wings jutting out from the central column, and the proportions are really well thought out but . . .’

  ‘What?’ Jade said.

  ‘There’s something a bit . . . brutal about it. The wings are aggressive, in-your-face, and they suck you into the entrance.’

  Jade saw what he meant. ‘It’s not very welcoming.’

  The Signora made a strange sound between a snort of derision and a laugh. ‘It is called “Villa Triste” – “the House of Sorrow”. Come with me.’ She ushered them across the road to the entrance of the apartment block. After what the Signora had called it Jade saw the building differently and, despite its stylish proportions, she felt uneasy in its shadow.

  ‘This was always the fashionable place to live,’ the Signora said. ‘It has wonderful views over the city. During the war, the German secret police liked it so much they took it over and allowed Mario Carità to have the basement and the first floor. It was here they brought Toschina.’

  Signora Minardi pointed to a stone plaque set into the wall. ‘Can you understand this?’

  Jade knew Nico couldn’t. She scanned it quickly, meaning to read it out to him. Despite being written in a complicated poetic way she realised what it meant and knew there was no way she could read it aloud without choking up. ‘Not really,’ she said to the Signora.

  The old lady placed her hand gently on the hard grey wall. ‘I have thought many times of how to put this into English and I think you will understand if I translate it thus:

  ‘“This is no longer a place of sorrow if you recognise that within its walls dwells a fraternity of innocent souls who, when they lived, faced their torturers armed only with their consciences and a determination not to betray their compatriots. To this end they were willing to languish, suffer and die.”’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Jade whispered.

  ‘My dear, I am bringing you and Nico here only so that you might begin to understand what it was like for us when we were the age you are now.’ The Signora glanced up at the plaque. ‘I can give you the numbers, I know them by heart: of 224,000 partisans 62,000 were killed and 33,000 were badly wounded. Of the ordinary people trying only to survive, 15,000 were murdered and 5,000 wounded. Fifty-seven priests in the Florence area were tortured and killed. There were 35,000 women fighters. 5,000 were imprisoned, six hundred and fifty were executed or died in combat, and 3,000 were deported to Germany. Seventeen were awarded the gold medal for valour.’

  The Signora paused. ‘But these are numbers – they are cold. You understand more in your hearts if I tell you about a single person; that is why I am showing you the story of Toschina. She was brought to the House of Sorrow and interrogated. Bright lights were shone into her eyes so that she became blind. Days, weeks of torture followed – sometimes Carità and his mistress watched and sometimes a priest played the piano and sang songs to drown out Toschina’s screams.’

  Jade went white. Nico hugged her protectively. ‘We get the message – I think that’s enough for now,’ he said to the Signora.

  ‘I think so also. It is time to drive far away from here, to the hills to sit in a pleasant cafe and forget the war for a while.’

  Eating was the last thing Jade wanted to do but the Signora was already walking briskly back to the taxi. ‘You OK?’ Nico asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘D’you want to go back to the apartment?’

  ‘No.’

  Jade was grateful that Nico accepted what she said and didn’t ask further questions. She wanted to know more – about Toschina, about the Signora, about Nonno. Eventually she’d get herself together and be able to ask for answers.

  The Signora instructed the taxi driver to take them to Fiesole and he drove into the countryside to a small town perched in the hills. They got out in a piazza with a wide view over the flowing countryside.

  ‘We will do the little tour like proper tourists,’ the Signora said with a smile and Jade cracked a grin as Nico pretended to look horrified.

  Signora Minardi took them to the Roman amphitheatre with lizards basking on its stone terraces. They sat on the warm steps and the Signora talked about the little town’s long history. Jade let it all wash over her, taking in a bit here and there and gradually finding her frozen soul warming. With a jolt she realised that Nico and the Signora were looking at her expectantly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re hungry, how about you?’ Nico said.

  As if in answer Jade’s stomach rumbled. She patted it apologetically. Nico pulled her to her feet and then offered his arm to the Signora. They walked to where the taxi driver was waiting patiently. He dropped them off at a restaurant and promised to be back in two hours. The waiters made a fuss of the Signora, ushered her to a terrace with astonishing views down to Florence and wafted her to a table in a secluded corner.

  ‘They know her, don’t they?’ Jade whispered to Nico.

  ‘Yep – everybody seems to in these places. And have you noticed how they seem a bit scared of her?’

  Jade saw what Nico meant. Within minutes of placing their order the manager appeared and greeted the Signora effusively, his eyes darting to her scarf. The Signora responded like a queen and serenely waved him away. He left as quickly as he’d appeared, red-faced and sweating.

  ‘I’m ravenous,’ Jade said.

  ‘Me too, I could eat a horse,’ Nico agreed.

  ‘And I,’ the Signora added. ‘Fortunately, the food here is very good, there is no need to eat the horses. While we are waiting we can admire the views.’

  To Jade’s surprise Nico came out with, ‘È incantevole.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The Signora patted her hands together in polite applause. ‘If you look over this “enchanting” view to the horizon, to the mountain peak on the
left, and imagine the place behind it, that is where the Carrara marble quarries are.’

  ‘Where Michelangelo got his stone from,’ Jade said, pleased to be able to join in a conversation about art. In the end, the fake project had turned out to be interesting.

  The food arrived swiftly and was replenished unobtrusively as they chatted about the art and history of the area. ‘Signora Minardi,’ Jade asked, ‘what happened to all the art during the war?’

  ‘Many treasures were hidden in villas throughout Tuscany. Still the enemy found them and sent truckloads of priceless art away. Much has been found again and restored to Florence.’ The Signora sighed. ‘The architecture suffered too. Most of what was reduced to rubble has been rebuilt and the damage to the Duomo has been repaired.’

  ‘They bombed the Duomo!’

  Jade could understand Nico’s rage; she’d never forget the effect their first sight of the cathedral had had on her family.

  The Signora waved her arm over the panorama far below. ‘The Germans bombarded Florence from here in Fiesole. The ancient bridges over the Arno had been blown up before this time, except for the Ponte Vecchio and that was blocked with rubble to prevent the Allies from using it to cross into the city. The enemy had even weakened the wooden beams of a secret passageway above the bridge and mined each end. There were also the sharpshooters – snipers, I think you call them now.

  ‘Despite this, the partisans and British agents ran a telephone line along it to communicate with the Allies on the south side of the Arno.’ The Signora smiled. ‘They lowered the line down a rope to an American vehicle with a transmitter.’

  ‘Neat,’ Nico said, his voice full of admiration.