Lunch with Mussolini

by Derek Hansen

  ‘Now, Cecilia, read to me. We are very fortunate, see? The front pages are full of Il Duce’s welcome to Herr Hitler in Rome. I was invited to attend, you know, by Il Duce himself. Unfortunately my health … even a Count must sometimes obey his doctor.’

  Cecilia was agog. The Count knew Mussolini? Mussolini knew the Count? If that wasn’t enough to contend with, she’d also just discovered that her benefactor was unwell. She was about to inquire as to the cause of his ill-health, when she hesitated. What would be normal good manners wasn’t necessarily the case in this house. Would her inquiry be interpreted as thoughtfulness or impertinence? She knew the answer as soon as the question formed in her head. She was learning.

  ‘Viva Il Führer!’ she began, reading the headline emblazoned across the front page of Il Popolo d’Italia. She couldn’t help but fill with pride when she read how the Führer had arrived at the Ostiense railway station, newly refurbished for the occasion, and begun a procession to the Palazzo del Quirinale alongside the King. Their six-horse state carriage was flanked by mounted escorts in gleaming cuirasses and horsetail-plumed helmets. Mussolini had followed immediately behind in a black Lancia, first in a motorcade containing fascist dignitaries and Hitler’s five-hundred-strong retinue. Red lights beaming on magnesium flares created the illusion that the Colosseum was burning in a spectacle that Rome hadn’t witnessed since Nero’s excesses, and all along the five-kilometre route, newly installed lights played upon the dancing waters of Bernini’s fountains. The paper also reported that Goebbels had called the young officers lining the route ‘a perfect spectacle’. And that Hitler had called Il Duce ‘the last Roman’.

  As she read this, Cecilia glanced up at the Count as she had been trained to do. He sat head back and eyes closed, an ecstatic smile on his face, just as her father would have had he been listening instead. She read on, over page after page, as various reporters recorded the same event with varying degrees of hysteria.

  ‘Enough,’ said the Count finally. ‘They are beginning to diminish this historic event with their rantings. I would have been in the procession. I would have been there to share the glory. This day will live long in the memory of every patriotic Italian. I wonder now if that weakling in the Quirinale has finally got the message.’ He reached over and put his hand on Cecilia’s thigh and held it there, his watery eyes gazing into hers. ‘Thank you, my child, with the voice of an angel. You read beautifully. You made me feel as though I were there after all. Because of you, I have missed nothing! Thank you once more.’ He squeezed her thigh, patted it for a moment, then withdrew his hand. ‘Run along now.’

  ‘The Signora said we mustn’t run,’ said Cecilia as she climbed down from her chair. ‘It is sufficient to walk with purpose.’

  The Count erupted with laughter. His thin shoulders shook and his eyes watered even more. His laughter followed Cecilia to the door where she paused to curtsy before leaving. Even the statue-like Signor Calosci was smiling.

  What was Mussolini’s triumph compared to hers?

  Lucio finished speaking and pushed his chair back to indicate that the day’s storytelling had concluded. He reached for his glass of grappa but he’d drained it long ago. He glanced over to where he expected Gancio to be, behind his bar waiting for the signal to serve coffee. But of course Gancio was sitting next to him. ‘We have a problem.’

  ‘No we don’t. Maria!’ Gancio waved towards the kitchen.

  ‘Subito!’ Maria, the longest serving of Gancio’s waitresses appeared and attacked the espresso machine.

  ‘Well,’ said Ramon. ‘Your comments please, Gancio. Now do you appreciate why our Thursdays are so precious to us?’

  ‘Of course. Well done, Lucio, your storytelling does you credit. I must admit I had no idea you were such a good storyteller. I have listened in over the years so the experience is not new to me. But stories like this I expect from Ramon and Milos, not from you. You tell your story well.’

  ‘Hear, hear.’

  ‘See? We all agree. But I don’t understand why you chose this subject. Why rake over the past like this? Why resurrect it? Why can’t you just entertain like you always do? Leave these sorts of stories to the others.’

  ‘What’s your problem? Because it is Italian? You happily listen in to Ramon when he talks of the bad times in Argentina, and Milos when he takes us back to wartime Hungary. Why should Italy be quarantined? They share their history, why shouldn’t we share ours?’

  ‘I think some things are best left alone.’

  ‘What specifically?’ Ramon’s voice was gentle and persuasive. ‘What is the part of Lucio’s story that you feel should be left alone?’

  Gancio was uncomfortably aware that he was the centre of keen attention. ‘It is not the fact that the story is based in Italy.’ He hesitated.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s just that some things are better left alone.’ He looked around the table helplessly. ‘This story touches on the subject of war criminals. I can’t see that any good is served by hunting them down and dragging them before courts. It all happened so long ago. It was a moment in history unlike any other and it will never be repeated. Times were very different. People were different. You can’t judge what happened then by today’s standards. People did things because they had no choice.’

  ‘People always have choice, Gancio.’

  ‘No, Ramon! That is where you are wrong. What do you or I know about the Oberstleutnant?’ Gancio’s voice had risen and become strident. ‘What do you know of the pressures that were on him? The times that Lucio’s talking about when those eight unfortunate women were shot, they were desperate times. The Wehrmacht no longer had any heart for the fighting. They knew they were beaten. They just wanted the war to end so that they could go home. But they couldn’t go home. The SS were standing behind them with guns at their heads. Fight or be shot. Obey orders or be shot. Obey orders! Is a man a war criminal because he followed orders? Do you think in this situation a soldier has any choice? No one can approve of what the Oberstleutnant did. But to be fair, everybody knew about reprisals. Notices were posted everywhere. The Oberstleutnant acted in response to partisan activities. He had no choice.’

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ said Neil. ‘I’m not aware of Lucio telling us what the Oberstleutnant acted in response to.’

  The spotlight fell on Gancio once more, exactly as it had when he’d choked on the grappa. ‘It is a reasonable assumption.’ Gancio looked to Lucio for support, but got no response. ‘Reprisals took place because of partisan activities or assassinations. Or because people made the mistake of being Jewish. The women who were shot were not Jewish because they were coming from the church. Lucio told us that. They went there for comfort. So if they were not Jewish, the shootings were in reprisal. What else could they be?’

  ‘What indeed?’ Milos turned to Lucio. ‘But that doesn’t explain why he only shot women and spared the old man—what was his name? Mentore Parente? I think our friend here has plenty of surprises in store. Already he has opened up endless possibilities and I, from my point of view, am absolutely delighted that he has chosen this subject, and demonstrated a skill in the telling we never knew he had.’

  ‘I agree with Milos.’ Ramon was thoughtful for a moment. ‘However, Gancio also has a point. Let me remind you of the Polyukhovich case. He was the Adelaide pensioner at the centre of the war crimes trial in Adelaide. He was charged with being involved in the deaths of eight hundred and fifty Jews—the Jews of Serniki—in 1942. Before the investigation he was a model citizen. He lived quietly, tended his garden and even kept bees. Then forty-eight years after the massacre of the Serniki Jews, he is made to face trial. He tries to commit suicide. He suffers two suspected heart attacks and severe hypertension. The strain on his family as his name and picture appear in newspapers all over Australia and abroad for three years is horrendous. And the prosecution spends millions of dollars bringing the case to court. For what? He was acquitted by the jury after one hour’s
deliberation because of the difficulty in securing confirmation of his crimes. Whether or not he perpetrated the atrocity is irrelevant. He could be entirely innocent, an officer acting under orders, or a monster. We will never know. But our system demands he be given the benefit of the doubt. So he must be presumed innocent. And if he is innocent, why should any innocent man be made to suffer this way? So, taking Gancio’s point, what useful purpose did the investigation and trial serve? Are these matters best left alone, after all?’

  ‘No way, José,’ Neil cut in. ‘There’s far too much rhetoric here. The fact is, the prosecution must have been pretty sure they had their man or they wouldn’t have brought the case to trial. If Polyukhovich is innocent then he’s had the opportunity to clear his name. From my point of view, a war criminal is a war criminal. Time excuses nothing. I reckon they should all be hounded to their graves. The only thing I bleat about is the cost. I have a lot of sympathy for Colombina.’

  ‘Do you want me to stop telling this story?’ asked Lucio quietly.

  ‘You can’t,’ Neil cut in quickly. ‘We have broken many conventions but we will not break that one. Once you start a story you have to finish it. Milos, what do you think?’

  ‘Lucio should continue. I’ve made my point of view quite clear. I think this is a story with fantastic potential. Ramon?’

  ‘I agree. Of course he should finish. Gancio raised a point and since he is our newest member, I felt we should accord him the courtesy of having it discussed. Besides, this story has me intrigued. I don’t think this is the last moral issue we will have to face either. Does Colombina have the right to bypass the courts and take justice into her own hands? And what is our role? Lucio made it clear at the start that he would appreciate our comments. Should Lucio continue? Absolutely. Gancio?’

  ‘I have two choices. Listen or stop listening. I can’t stop Lucio telling his story. That is not my place. But you may regret your decision today. Lucio says this story is true. Let me leave you in no doubt. Every word of it is true. Every word. Think about that while you sip your coffee and your grappa. I know your story, Lucio. It’s not too late if you wish to change your mind.’

  Maria began placing the coffees and grappas on the table before each of the men. But she could have been invisible. Ramon, Neil and Milos waited for Lucio’s reaction.

  ‘How … how do you know so much about my story?’

  ‘When the time comes, I will tell you. Do you still wish to go on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then God help us all, because I know who you are, Lucio. I know who you are.’

  SECOND THURSDAY

  The week’s break had unsettled Lucio. It had given him time to think and he realised how far in over his head he was. The others made their storytelling seem so easy but now he knew the reverse to be true. He doubted his ability to manage the complexity without revealing too much too soon and giving himself away. Besides that, there was the question of timing. If it came to the crunch, he could always stretch his story a bit or, if the worst came to the worst, give it away. But if he could time everything right, if everything went his way, then he’d upstage them all and even give Ramon a mighty dose of his own medicine.

  But first he had mountains to climb, higher mountains than he’d ever entertained climbing before. And he knew they’d watch his every step and subject every stumble to thorough inspection. Could he cope with that sort of scrutiny? And what about Gancio? The man was a loose cannon. As if he didn’t have a tough enough audience to begin with, he had to contend with Gancio. The big man had stunned everyone with his outburst, none more so than the storyteller. He’d been tempted to take him aside and sort a few things out, but it was all too late. Damn him! Already he was on the defensive and that was no place to be after just one episode. He needed to shake up his audience and get them off balance. Then keep them off balance. But how on earth could he do that?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Milos’ chair sliding back. He looked up. Yes, Ramon had arrived and Milos had stood, as always, to greet him. Neil watched Milos stand, caught Lucio’s eye and shook his head in wonderment, as if standing to greet a friend was the most foolish thing he’d ever seen anyone do.

  ‘Ramon, I swear I don’t know how you do it.’ Milos took an exaggerated look at his watch as if synchronising it. ‘Twelve thirty exactly.’

  ‘If you’d set your watch by him last week it would be about six minutes slow this week. Big deal.’ Neil shrugged. ‘Anyway, you know he just sits outside in his cab and gets the cabbie to kick him out when it’s twelve twenty-nine and thirty seconds. Isn’t that right, Ramon? It’s his little game and typically, he has to cheat.’

  Ramon smiled. Punctuality to him was a matter of arriving precisely at the appointed time, being neither early nor late. It was a conceit, of course, like the gold Rolex he wore on his wrist. He claimed he had his own internal clock and he did, thanks to the hours of concentration and training in the first weeks of his blindness. It was only when he awoke from sleep that he was ever unsure of the time.

  ‘Gancio has asked a favour,’ he said, ignoring Neil. ‘He asked if he could join us as soon as we have finished eating. Lucio, would you mind waiting until then?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Very obliging of you, Lucio,’ cut in Neil. ‘You two, you and Gancio, make a great little team. A nice little storytelling mafia.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Milos’ ears pricked up and he turned to Lucio for enlightenment. When Lucio failed to respond he turned back to Neil. ‘Do you know something we don’t, or are you just being as snide and cynical as usual?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you fell for that little double act last week. I expect more from you, Milos. I reckon Lucio here has done more cooking than Gancio. The whole thing’s a set-up. It’s a stew. He’s doing a Ramon. Can you think of a better way to have us believe his story than contrive an endorsement from a second party?’

  ‘Interesting.’ Ramon leaned back into his chair thoughtfully. ‘Is he doing a Ramon, as you put it? I have thought of involving Gancio in a similar way in the past, but my judgement was that you wouldn’t wear it. Coming from me, it would be an obvious contrivance. But from Lucio, perhaps a stroke of genius. Interesting thought, Neil. Perhaps if I had your cynicism it might have occurred to me, too. What do you think, Milos?’

  ‘Gancio was very convincing, no? He is a great chef, but is he also a great actor?’

  ‘All Italians are actors,’ growled Neil. ‘Haven’t you ever watched them play football?’

  ‘Ah … point taken. But if you’ve been watching Lucio here, you would have noticed that Gancio surprised him as much as anyone.’

  ‘Jesus, Milos! Lucio acted as surprised as anyone. He acted as surprised, okay?’

  ‘If that’s the case, he was a very surprised actor,’ said Milos patiently. ‘I got the distinct impression that Lucio would have been delighted if Gancio had gone away and fallen on one of his kitchen knives, no?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Lucio smiled. He could not believe his luck. He blessed the gods for giving him Neil. If the others had suspected complicity they would have kept their suspicions to themselves, silently gathering evidence for and against to use later or discard. But Neil couldn’t keep a cold to himself, and had provided the ingredient he’d been looking for. Neil had introduced a wonderful new element. What more could a storyteller ask for? His confidence grew. ‘Ahhh … Gancio, what have you done?’ He looked up delightedly as Gancio placed a large plate containing one of his favourite foods upon the table.

  ‘Misoltitt … a dish inspired by your story.’ Gancio’s pride was obvious as he gazed down at the platter of small fish. ‘From Lecco. I found them in Paddy’s Market. They are not perfect because they were tinned. But I have dried them and marinated them in my own special way.’

  ‘Magnificent!’

  ‘Thank you, Lucio. Help yourselves while I fillet some for Ramon.’

  ‘You want to fillet some for me while
you’re at it?’

  ‘Of course. Would you also like me to bring you a bib, Neil?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll skip the funny fish and double up on whatever’s next. What is next?’

  ‘Another dish inspired by Lucio’s story. I don’t know why I haven’t made it before. It’s today’s special and everyone is ordering it. Risotto Gorgonzola.’

  ‘Jesus help me! And you guys still don’t think these two wogs are in league with each other?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Neil thinks you and I are conspiring together.’

  Gancio turned and looked at Neil pityingly. ‘Sometimes I think you are too stupid to live. Here are your little fish, nicely filleted. I’ve hidden a bone in one of them. Choke on it.’

  Neil gave in gracelessly, and picked at the little fish with his fork.

  ‘Has Ramon spoken to you, Lucio? Will you wait until I can join you?’

  ‘Today, Gancio my friend, you can have anything you want.’

  Chapter Seven

  Dresden, the capital of Saxony, was first settled in the twelfth century by Sorbs, a Slavic people whose origins lay further east. Nobody knows why they chose to cross the River Elbe and build their village there but, whatever their reasons, they chose their site well. It was both beautiful and practical. The hills on both sides of the valley were heavily timbered and followed the curve of the Elbe. The local stone was easily quarried and suitable for construction, so there was no shortage of building materials. It was also a natural crossing point of the river and sat squarely on the trade route between Meissen and the silver mines of Freiberg. Showing none of the creativity or imagination which would later mark their village as one of the world’s great cultural centres, they named it Drezdany, the place of the wooded valley dwellers.